The Great TV Strike
by thecrazyfanficcer
Summary: When Mr. Burns takes TV away from all of Springfield, it's up to everyone's favourite yellow skinned beer drinking oaf to save the day. What awaits him? Well, weirdness and OCness, for starters...
1. It Begins

**What appears to be a genderless black silhouette is standing up against a wardrobe , shuffling through a thick sheaf of papers, which totaled thirty-one in all. This is the author's self-insert, Thecrazyfanficcer, aka TCF or Fanficcer, as it preferred to be called. Thecrazyfanficcer is not normal, as one could guess by the fact that it is standing in the 'twisted abyss of my mind;' perched on the top of the wardrobe sits a calm Pikachu, watching as Fanficcer skims and leafs through the first few pages, traversing down the words with its luminous green eyes.**

"**Here I am with my first Simpsons fanfic on the site," it says with an evil grin, focusing its mad, demented look toward the Pikachu, seeing as there's no audience in sight. "But the weird thing is, despite the fact that I've been watching this great TV show about one crazed yellow-skinned American family for so long, the characters in this Simpsons story are (I think) out of character. Matt Groening, Matt Groening…" It smacks its forehead repeatedly, the slapping sound resonating through the twisted abyss of its mind. "How in the world do you do it?"**

"**Enough with the shenanigans, TCF!" calls the yellow pocket monster, whose name is Pikasqueaks. "We've had enough!" **

"**Now, on with the fanfic!" says Fanficcer, making an effort to ignore Pikasqueaks. **

"**Hear, hear!" Pikasqueaks exclaims, excited. "On with the fanfic!"**

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_Come gather round, children, it's time ye learns_

_Of a hero called Homer and a devil named Burns._

_We'll march day and night by the old cooling tower;_

_They've got the plant, but we've got the power._

Relative calmness had settled over the town of Springfield as the afternoon's early rays floated down gently from the sky above, tingeing the rooftops golden and bathing a small, rotund figure down below in yellow light. That is to say, of course, if his skin weren't already yellow.

Whistling, Homer Simpson, local lard-chewing oaf of Springfield, USA, was walking over to his friend Apu's Kwik-E-Mart, his steps high and a song melting into his normally baritone voice. The gravel crunched under Homer's pointed gray shoes as he walked through the department's store's asphalt drive. The door clicked open and slid apart as he entered, his shoes clacking loudly onto the tiled floor. Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, the local shopkeeper, was bent somewhere under the counter, searching for something.

As it turned out, Homer, in his especially good mood that day, called, "Apu! What are you doing?" Under normal circumstances, the call for food would have gone something like "One beer and two gallons of double-chocolate ice cream." That was traditional Homer Simpson for you – but, for all the both of them knew, it was but the beginning of this fateful time in the life of every Springfielder.

Apu resurfaced, a tub of ice cream under one arm. He was straining with the weight, and Homer, suddenly and abnormally in a giving kind of mood today, reached over and relieved the shorter man of his burden.

"Thank you, Homer Simpson, sir," the Indian shopkeeper acknowledged gratefully as he leaned over the tubs, panting. "It will be the races in two days and Mr. Burns has ordered a large amount of ice cream."

"Ooh," Homer intervened without listening to Apu, his mouth forming into his traditional O of desire in the presence of food. He tried snatching the tub from the counter where he'd deposited them, but the shopkeeper got him first.

"No, sir! If you want some ice cream, you will have to buy some yourself."

The yellow-skinned oaf checked his pockets sadly, lifting out his wallet and flicking it open. The picture of his wife, Marge Bouvier Simpson, his ID and associated paraphernalia opened up at him, but there was no actual cash – not even a credit card. So, Homer thanked Apu, his feet dragging together as he left the general store. He carefully thought about what he had heard. Everyone knew that the Springfield Games, held by Charles Montgomery Burns, the aged owner of the local nuclear power plant – were scheduled late every June. As Homer pondered the question, he remembered hearing somewhere that the greedy old miser had set them up to increase his potential outcome.

He didn't know exactly what that meant, but he was pretty sure that it was for Mr. Burns' own egotistical reasons. (After all, Mayor 'Diamond' Joe Quimby would only let something like that happen if offered the right amount of money, or maybe girls. For a mayor, he sure drove a hard bargain.) Either way, he knew, he shouldn't be going to the games; he should be off warning Springfield's general populace of the miser's foolish greed, but – then again – Homer Simpson did not easily block off temptation. He knew he would be going this year, if only for the food.

Seeing as he'd only been gone half an hour and there was nothing to do at his house, save watching TV and drinking beer, Homer decided to walk over to Moe's the local tavern. He'd left his pink sedan at home, but the distance between the Kwik-E-Mart and his usual bar wasn't too great. So, saying goodbye to Apu, Homer walked the way there – strangely enough. He must have been in a really good mood that day.

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"Hey, Homer." Moe Szyslak, the barkeeper and tavern's namesake, was standing behind the counter, wiping a beer glass with his dirty rag as usual. Though he was only middle-aged, his curly hair was already gray and he looked…well, you know…kind of dangerous. He was tall and lanky, and even at the wee hours of the late pre-twilight afternoon, Moe was as busy as always. After all, managing a tavern is no easy task.

Lenny and Carl, Homer's best friends, greeted him as he walked into the bar. The said alcoholic raised his hand in greeting before plopping down on one of the red bar stools and ordering a Duff.

"One beer comin' up," Moe said, putting down the glass he was cleaning with a dirty dishrag and walking over to a beer spout. Taking one of see-through mugs from a rack near the cash register, Moe filled it with honey-colored beer and passed it to Homer.

Homer was about to lift the foaming beer glass to his mouth, but by his own dutiful responsibility stopped it halfway. "I'm sorry, Moe," he intervened sadly, the glass drooping in his curled fist," but I can't pay you back. I don't have any money."

"It's all right," Lenny assured the other man, drinking from his own clear glass. "Moe is giving everyone beers on the house because it's the races in two days."

"Yeah, he's been doing it since yesterday," Carl added, his Buzz Cola can clinking as he drained it in one gulp.

Homer shrugged and chugged his own lug. "Are you guys gonna be there?" he asked, to change the subject.

"Yeah, we're going," Lenny replied casually. "But Barney's not. Too much beer there. He would go crazy,"

Homer glanced sideways at the shadowed form of Barney Gumble, sitting down at his traditional barstool. The man had been in much better shape since he'd started going to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but even one can of Duff could backfire against all the hard work he'd achieved since deciding to stop his alcoholism. Yes, it was a good idea for Barney not to go to the races this year.

"Well, I'm gonna be there," Homer announced to his friends, slurping at his beer. "Even if it's only for the food."

He spent some time talking with the other men, then left for the night, his feet clomping loudly on the silent sidewalk.

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Homer pulled up the Simpsons' pink sedan at the lawn of Mr. Burns' mansion two days later. It was the races, and everyone was standing in little groups, chatting together excitedly. Balloons and streamers decorated a podium at the front of the wide, grassy lawn; for the moment, it lay unoccupied. No one seemed to think that the races were held for Mr. Burns' economic benefit, but on the other hand it was always that way. The Simpsons preferred it that way, as a matter of fact.

Homer parked the car and the Simpsons wandered out, his wife Marge holding baby Maggie. "Homer, I'm not sure this was such a good idea," Marge confided worriedly in her husband. She was shorter than him, about average height, but her tall blue hairdo stretched higher than his own bald pate.

"Why, Marge?" Homer asked innocently, though he knew perfectly well why.

Sure enough, the answer came:

"Because, Homer, Mr. Burns is only doing it for the money and you know it."

"Yeah, Homer," Bart added. "Even if no one seems to know or care."

Bartholomew J. Simpson, as was his real name, was the ten year-old junior terror of Springfield, local rogue of the small town and a general disgrace to the general adult population. Principal Seymour Skinner, the head administrator of the Springfield Elementary School, was -- in Bart's personal opinion -- the easiest guy for the cool dude to dish his bag of tricks and treats on. Though relatively cool and what's-it-to-you-man, Bart had been a nerd exactly once in his life -- complete with glasses, squeaky voice and high-topped shoes. But for now (and the rest of his preteen life, at least), he was do-badder extraordinaire, distinctly in his element with taunting his father. Bart sure loved his nonexistent career, all right.

"Why you little--" Homer was about to strangle his son, but was distracted by his other daughter, Lisa, pulling at the white top he always wore. Lisa was the second-grade genius of Springfield Elementary, and it showed, too. She was the normally model student -- vegetarian, though the staff hadn't liked it -- who had the annoying habit of always wearing the same red dress every day. Lisa probably had one of the top IQ's in the school and – according to Skinner – without her, its reputation would come crashing around his ears. So as it went, Homer glanced down to see his genius daughter's eyes sneaky and suspicious-looking.

"We have to leave." Lisa tugged hard on Bart's yellow arm. The trickster was about to protest, but then realization dawned on him and the trickster fell silent. "I'm sure it would provide a great opportunity for you and Mom to talk together."

Marge frowned at her daughter. "Lisa, I know what you want to do and it won't work."

"Yeah. We'll all go confront Mr. Burns together," Homer added, drawing himself up in a self-important way. With that, yellow can-shaped head facing the blue horizon, he marched like an army general across the yard, though not without grabbing a peach-and-cream pie to keep his energy for the two-minute walk.

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Mr. Burns was with his faithful assistant, Waylon Smithers, at the edge of the green grounds. "Excellent," the greedy old miser breathed as he stared at the happy jogging forms of the race competitors. "Their money is mine."

Smithers tugged his collar nervously and bit his lip. The way he saw it, Mr. Burns was going to round on him when he heard the news, but he had no choice. "You may not know this, but the people aren't paying." It had taken a lot of courage to say it, but once it he'd got it off his chest, Smithers felt relatively better. Relatively.

"What are you saying, Smithers? Why aren't they paying?"

"Well -- you see, sir, I told them not to," the (cough –supposedly – cough) trustworthy assistant explained, taking a step backward when his boss's evil-eyed glare leered up in front of him. The greedy old man rose from his arm chair before taking another step forward, his head lowered so that his long nose made him look more like a vampire than an actual human being. His every step deliberate and dangerous, Burns advanced – a tall dark shadow above Smithers – who was cowering against the cream-colored wall.

"And why, Smithers? Why did you tell them not to?"

Smithers stepped away from the evil one until he could feel his back crunch on one of the graveled walls of his master's mansion. He threw his hands up over his head, quivering as furiously as a young child from the thirties about to be flogged for the first time. But he was saved; Mr. Burns never finished his tirade; with the next step, his black-shoed foot caught fast on a rock, and the old man came tumbling to his doom – or what seemed to be his doom, anyway. He fell right in front of Smithers, head-first on the emerald-green grass.

"Are you all right?" Smithers uncovered his face and peered at the stickpole-thin form of his boss before crawling forward, weeping. He began to stutter out a hasty apology, but – alas, to use a Dumbledore-ish word – he was stopped.

"Blast this grass!" Mr. Burns spat out a mouthful before facing Smithers face to face. "Of course I'm all right," Mr. Burns assured him suddenly, his head sticking up at an odd angle from the fall. He stared at his servant through eyes that were as livid-looking as always, round and glassy white as usual. He spit out another wad of grass and glared at his assistant through slit eyes.

Smithers helped the old man up, then turned at the sound of arriving footsteps and nearly dropping Mr. Burns in the process. It was the Simpsons, a family who had once helped Smithers in discovering why his father had disappeared over thirty years ago. Though he knew perfectly well the father's name, Homer -- he worked for the power plant -- it was common knowledge that Mr. Burns did not. No, not even after that fateful day when Homer, fed up and tired and supremely annoyed at his boss's incompetence, had attempted to graffiti his name in green spray paint all over Mr. Burns' office. ()

(I've seen _way_ too much of this show, haven't I?)

"Smithers! Who is this fool?" Mr. Burns asked now as he was carefully being levered to his feet by his trusty servant and employee.

"It's Homer Simpson, sir, from sector 7G." The phrase, now uttered countless times through the ages, left a strange feeling in Smithers, one he hadn't had for a long time: annoyance with the boss of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. The few times Smithers did try to guide his boss away from the brink of insanity, it was because of this not-so-influential family that he usually prevailed.

"Simpson, eh?" Mr. Burns played greedily with the tie of his tailored suit. "Ah. And why is he, a mere insect in the path of supreme and ultimate power, of such importance to me for?" Burns asked spitefully, his eyes blazing. (Hey, don't ask me -- the characters' white, ball-shaped eyes, coupled with their yellow skin and annoying catchphrases are enough to make the Simpsons one of the toughest shows for me to fanfic out there.)

"He's angry with you sir," Smithers said, trying to rule out his options and figure out what to do. "His family wants to have a word with you, I think."

"Then let us listen," Mr. Burns decided in a most uncharacteristic way, leaning back against the wall of his manor and pressing two fingers against his lips. His head was lowered, giving him a shaded appearance and flashing eyes, like a vampire.

Smithers, for once scared of this now-fearsome being, backed up into the shadows. "Yes, sir," he replied, shakily adjusting his round glasses as he stepped back out of the shadows.

Once he was clear of the vampiric old man, Smithers sighed inwardly. It was an unusual feeling, this…this fear of Mr. Burns, though it wouldn't have been the first time. Nope, it didn't happen often, though there had been one time: when Mr. Burns had become so egoistic and megalomaniacal that he'd tried blocking out the sunlight; that way, according to him, the Springfielders would pay more for his power plant's electricity. Suffice to say, Smithers didn't know just what would happen, but he definitely cared. He had never forgotten what the Simpsons had done about his father some while back, and it was his duty to protect them from the tyranny of Mr. Burns.

As it was, Smithers motioned to the Simpsons to follow him. Determined Homer came first, followed by a nervous-looking Marge; Bart looked suspicious and Lisa slightly scared. Even Maggie, perched in her blue-haired mother's arms, was sucking her pacifier with less vigor than usual. The sucking sounds only resonated every two seconds instead of the usual once a second.

"So," began Mr. Burns, leaning forward on his desk so that his frail fingertips touched each other in a most characteristic fashion, "What is it you have come to tell me?"

"Mr. Burns," declared Homer bravely, stepping forward out of the shadows. An angry expression was on his face; his fists were balled, his teeth clenched, as his hulking figure neared Mr. Burns thin, suddenly tiny one. "Mr. Burns…"

His voice trailed off; his hands flew to his ears as the head honcho himself cried out in exasperation. "Confound it, you blubbering fool! You are one of the few who have dared to force my power from the power plant, and you shall pay! I say, from this day forth, Springfield will be removed of all its television! Blast it, you oaf Homer Simpson! Your beer-slurping, belly-grumbling, TV-watching days are over!"

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() (I've seen _way_ too much of this show, haven't I?)


	2. TV Trouble

**TCF was dancing.**

"**I got reviews!" it cried, eagerly twirling like a hippie. "Peace out, y'all, and keep on readin'!"**

"**You know you're insane, right, Fanficcer?" declared Pikasqueaks, who indeed thought it was.**

**TCF shrugged, dismissively. "Who cares? I got reviews!"**

**Pikasqueaks smacked his forehead angrily. "Here we go again..."**

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No, it wasn't just the fact that Charles Montgomery Burns, head of Springfield's nuclear power plant, had actually got his oaf of an employee's name right for once. (Smithers out of the picture, of course.) It was also owing to a much bigger, scarier, and – to Homer Simpson, Barney Gumble, Moe Szyslak, Bumblebee Man, Julius Hibbert, Seymour Skinner, Herschel Krustofski (more commonly known as Krusty the Klown), Nelson Muntz, Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, Clancy Wiggum, Troy McClure, Lionel Hutz, Rainier Wolfcastle, Joe Quimby, Abe Simpson, and pretty much every other male resident in Springfield aged eight and up – annoying fact of any Springfielder's life.

Allow me to show you why.

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"With TV gone, we won't be able to find any new ideas for beating up nerds!" Kearney, a bully with a shaved head whose surname is unknown as of yet, complained to his accomplices Nelson Muntz, Jimbo Jones, and Dolph.

"Yeah! And how are we going to know which ones to beat up?" added Dolph.

"Now we'll have to do the right thing and not beat them up at all!" Jimbo was so angry he actually ripped his purple beanie off his dreadlocked head and stomped it on the ground.

"Now you know what's it like to be smart!" Martin Prince, fourth-grade genius whose IQ matched up only to a much younger Lisa's, cried out as he ran forward, pirouetting up a nearby hill. He was followed by similarly happy dancing nerds.

"Let's slug 'em!" Dolph suggested cruelly, and within seconds the nerds had disappeared under a flurry of fists.

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"I'm bored, Daddy. We have nothing to do."

"What is it, Toddy?" Ned Flanders pressed one hand to his shorter son's forehead. "Are you feeling all right? Usually you and Rod love playing the stare-at-the-wall game."

"It's because Mrs. Simpson showed us how to have fun," declared Ned's other son, Rod. "I want to watch TV."

"So do I!" Todd chimed in eagerly.

Even when his wife, Maude, had been alive, Ned had rarely ever had trouble like this with his young sons. Therefore, he was at a loss for what to do. Homer's neighbor quickly muttered a small prayer and stood up, placing one hand one each son's curl-covered head.

"Is there anything else I can diddly-iddly do for you two?" he asked, trying to hide a tired sigh with his usual dose of meaningless gibberish.

Rod and Todd glanced at each other reluctantly. "Well, I guess we can go outside and pray at Mommy's tombstone," suggested Rod, and Todd nodded alongside him.

"Okey dokey diddily okey, then. We'll all go together." Taking each of his sons by the hand, Ned walked them across the lawn, chancing occasional looks toward the sky, definitely in lower spirits than his outward demeanor would suggest . Since when was childrearing so hard?

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At three o'clock in the afternoon, the Springfield Retirement Castle was quiet.

Too quiet.

"We've got nothing to do." Jasper Beardley, a white-bearded senior who currently resided with Abe Simpson and the Old Jewish Man at the old folk's home, reached forward and poked the TV screen with his cane. "The plug's in, but it's not working."

"In my day, I…" Abe, Homer's father, stopped his newly-begun narration to fall asleep with his mouth wide open – quite a usual feat by Simpsons standards. He awoke within a few seconds, wiping the saliva from his mouth before continuing his story. "In my day, rich old misers never cut the television from the whole town just because they were annoyed." Abe's voice grew slightly muffled; he sounded miffed. "They did it because they had nothing better to do."

"Yeah, I agree with you!" The Old Jewish Man's voice rang, loud and clear – and definitely accented – through the ears of the residents of the Springfield Retirement Castle.

"Who wants to bring TV back?" With this long-to-be-valiant cry, Abe jumped off onto the non-functioning purple set and whacked the screen with the cane he sometimes carried. When a roaring cry met his plea, the old man whacked the screen again. "Well, it's time to bring it back to Springfield!"

When the slow-moving crowd of seniors had cleared the doorway and were currently parading through the streets of Springfield, one of the volunteer nurses turned to another. "Is that all right for them?" she asked her compère as they scooped up some stray pills into a container lying nearby. "They haven't had their shots yet this week. They're high on sugar."

"Let 'em live, let 'em live," shrugged the other volunteer, despite the cries of pain coming to their ears from outside the door.

* * *


	3. Simpsons Scene Switching

"Remind me why we're at the bowling alley again?"

"Disco Stu is bored," came Otto's cool response from the afroed hippie himself. "So, I brought you here."

"Let's have some real fun!" the floppy-haired bus driver cried, excited, letting his black bowling ball fly loose from one yellow hand before he ducked past an acne-spotted teenager. He scampered over to the doorway. "Let's crash at my pad and watch TV!"

"Disco Stu knows what to do." The sun-glassed man adjusted these purple shades as he placed one thickly-ringed hand on his compatriot's shoulder. "The TVs are in blackout."

"Right," Otto noted dejectedly as Disco Stu steered him back to the fourth alley. "No TVs. No crashing out at my pad. Right. In that case, we should find something."

"What about bowling?" Disco Stu suggested with a vague wave of the hand as he danced over to where a few bowls were absently waiting in the holder. "Disco Stu is at Barney's Bowlarama, after all."

"Yeah," agreed Otto with a sigh as he followed his partner in crime over to the balls. "Yeah, but I wish we still had some pot – uh, TV."

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"This blows."

Bart Simpson stood angrily in the middle of the Springfield Elementary playground, arms crossed, one foot posed on the small hump of grassy hill that was the baseball diamond pitcher's mound. "We've got to do something, people!" the ten-year old cried angrily, smacking one fist into his palm. "We've got to bring TV back!"

"It won't work, Bart." Milhouse van Houten, Bart's geeky blue-haired friend () came running up, red shoes flattening the grass. "Look at what's happened!" His announcement/answer proclaimed, the fourth-grader fell to the ground at began pulling at his short, vivid hair in desperation. "Nooo!"

Abandoning the pitcher's mound, Bart traversed to the middle of the playground. Milhouse was right – it was a listless world without TV, almost as if sugar had completely gone from the domiciles of Springfield.

The kids were lolling, tongues hanging droopily from their mouths, beside the jungle gym. They looked parched under the gentle May sunlight – Nelson Muntz, Jimbo Jones, Kearney and Dolph were too weak to do more than punch nerds feebly beside the monkey bars. Ralph Wiggum, child of the local police chief and considerably on the idiot smart side, was lying under the swings – every time one of the restless swingers' feet would touch the sand under his back, his nose pulled up painfully. "My nose is leaking," he declared brightly as a swinger's feet dragged his nose upward once more and the red fluid of life came dripping from his snoot.

Even Martin was affected. He was currently crouched on the grass, his red shorts and white shirt muddy and soiled. "Must…watch…Discovery…Channel… Must…learn…new…things… Mind…growing…faint." He clawed limply at the grass, his breath growing shorter and more strained with each pant. "Can't…live…without…television… Books…not…enough."

"If no one's going to help me – then I'll do it myself!" His teeth gritted, his eyes bulging, Bart scurried all the way across the playground – frame by frame by frame on the TV scale – to a deserted brick wall where he, as town Bubble Boy, had once knocked a certain quartet of bullies down a peg.

"Well, Springfield… Here I come! TV! TV!"

The war cries for one of the Springfielders' favorite pastimes beat through the air as the devious demon prepared to do his worst.

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"Daddy, why is Mommy crying?"

Chief Clancy Wiggum of the Springfield Police Department patted young Ralph's stringy hair as the pajama-clad second-grader stared, entranced, at his weeping mother.

Sure enough, the purple-haired Sarah Wiggum was wiping her eye with a tissue as she stared at the blank TV screen. The normally pleasant-looking woman appeared to be mourning the loss of her soap operas – at least, every now and then she would glance downheartedly down at the magazine of that subject lying on her voluminous lap.

"Mommy is sad because… Because there's no TV." The blue-haired police chief patted his portly son once more on the head before taking him by the yellow hand on the way to his room. "It's time to get you into bed now, Ralphie."

"Then what have I been watching all this time?" queried Ralph with a gesture to a cardboard thing lying near the foot of his bed as he jumped into the covers and curled up under the cotton-soft pillow.

The said thing was a mere cereal box, painted white with a few red scribbles running over its papery surface. "I always thought it was my own TV set."

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() How in the world did he land himself with said master prankster, anyway?


	4. WE WANT TV!

"Brandine, would you look at that town," Cletus Spuckler told his orange-haired, pony-tailed wife/sister/who knows what else as they perched in old rocking chairs on the porch of their large farm somewhere in the countryside. The couple's numerous children were running in circles around the house, screaming, though neither seemed to notice -- this was normal behaviour and had nothing to do with the absence of TV in Springfield. "They're all riled 'cause there ain't no more TV."

"You're right, Cletus." Brandine replied to the slow-talking, reddish-brown-haired country bumpkin as she grabbed one of their runaway children. The girl had been running as fast as she could, much like a ship full speed ahead –she would have collided with the wall had Brandine not stopped her. "That's enough, Chloe – you'll hurt yourself."

"TV! TV!" squealed the child as she angrily jumped up and down. "TV!"

"No more outta you, Chloe," Cletus scolded before the young one, scowling, disappeared into the mist.

"I'm startin' ta wonder if th' TV ban's affectin' our kids, too, Cletus," Brandine confessed to the said reddish-head. "Have ya noticed that them's actin' up more'n usual?"

They both paused as their many children careened left and cartwheeled right.

"You know, Brandine – I think you're right," Cletus replied as he reached for a kicking, pulsing Cody Spuckler. "Them's all riled up."

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"Marge! What's wrong with the TV?"

"We have none, remember?" Marge poked her head from the kitchen doorway just in time for a marvelous spectacle of Homer emptying the contents of his Duff can on the top of the purple TV box; a mess of brown liquid crawled down its plastic. "We were there. And don't do that. The beer will fall and spoil the carpet."

"Hey, you're right! It is time" – here he stuck one finger up in the air in a I've-gotta-do-this! sort of way – "for the beer to come back!" In a matter Homer had slurped all the Duff from the screen and was licking his lips contentedly before resuming his monologue.

"Now, where was I?" He heaved his bulk onto the Simpsons' traditional rust-red sofa, crunching the can on his forehead. "Oh, yes. TV!" He suddenly broke his rant to thwack on his knees with cried of "I want TV! I want TV!"

"If you want TV back, go get it yourself," Marge snapped suddenly as her head receded into the shadows of the kitchen. "I'm happy enough without it."

Homer groaned and put his head in his hands -- with the Duff can still crumpled up in them. In approxiamately two point eight seconds, this is what happened:

"D'ohd'ohd'ohd'oh!"

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_Dear Diary,_

_A week has yet to pass since Mr. Burns banned the Springfielders of all their TV-watching privileges, and I have to say I'm happy. My life is finally peaceful, despite a swearing father and constantly complaining older brother. Speaking of which, it appears Bart's up to something __– he's been hanging around the playground all week, even when there isn't any school._

_Mom, like me, seems to be all right without television, but occasionally I'll catch her, edgy and uneasy, as she does the chores – these household tasks seemed to have increased over the days. I think Mom is trying to busy herself; Dad and Bart's _chichaneries _have reached an all-time high and chores are her only means of comfort_. _Even Dad has actually shown up to his office at least every day this week, and, according to him, so have Lenny and Carl. The lack of TV seems to have all the Springfielders down in the dumps, but if you ask me, it's all for the better._

With a satisfied sigh, Lisa Simpson replaced her pencil in its holder and closed her diary, locking it in with the key she had purchased -- oh, about the time a few months ago when Bart had begun, not for the first time, to take it from its hiding place under her bed and read it aloud to Milhouse. And it worked like a charm.

As she had written, the TV ban didn't really have much of an effect on her.

_Everyone else is loudly bringing voice to their sadness and lamenting on the streets, no thanks to Mr. Burns' devilry._

Though it was Simpson family tradition -- or at least it was for her, Bart, and Homer, anyway -- to watch new episodes of The Itchy and Scratchy Show after school, she didn't miss it. So Lisa was pleased, though judging by the cries of angerand defiance that had been resonating from the town all week...

"TVTVTVTV!"

...no one else was.


	5. TCF's Insanity

Sucking on her pacifier, local spike-haired baby Maggie Simpson pressed her hands to the basement window pane. Outside, a crowd of unhappy seniors were being escorted back to the Springfield Retirement Castle by two nurses. After reluctantly deciding that, seeing as they were both in possession of a thing called a conscience, the nurses had decided to stamp their fun and bring them back to the old folk's home. Beside her, the Simpsons' thin brown greyhound, Santa's Little Helper, squirmed slightly and scratched one paw against the glass.

Little Maggie, with the aid of Santa's Little Helper and the black cat, Snowball II, had made her way to the basement. She had slid downstairs by means of a thick blue exercise mat that she had found, curled up in the closet where the Simpsons normally kept their coats. Then, the pets had helped her push and stack a few crates and boxes into place; this made a tower of wood and cardboard that reached up to the window. Now, she was perched on top with the dog – Snowball II, being scared of heights, had preferred to scurry back up the stairs.

Maggie squinted harder through the glass portal that was the key to outside (actually, with some careful manoeuvring of the window's screws, Maggie knew she could actually escape the house through that window). She could only see the dragging, leaden steps of the elderly as the nurses guided them to the Retirement Castle, but she sensed their unhappiness.

Though she felt none of it herself, Maggie had noticed that, during the past week, all the Springfielders were listless and moved unceasingly, as if their spirits had been dampened and they had to do something about it but didn't know what. She had noted hat the purple box in front of the couch her father frequently lay upon with a red can perched on his big stomach was always empty and blank nowadays. She had often noticed that by pressing a button on a plastic stick, a dark screen on the purple box would illuminate with moving pictures. By pressing more buttons on the stick, Maggie had also noticed that the picture could change. Several times in the past week, she had seen her father trying to turn on the purple box via this plastic stick, but to no avail.

So, in short, the way Maggie saw it, something to do with the purple box had happened and set almost every Springfielder down to the dumps. Whatever it was, it sure made her happy – her blue-haired mother and even the pearl-necklaced young one who she'd deduced was her older sister played with her more often. The spike-haired person who, as Maggie had reasoned, was her older brother, acted differently – he preferred to stay cooped up in his room with the door bolted, working hard on something or else out of the house. (Even Maggie knew this was a strange-enough occurrence in itself, somehow.) Her pot-bellied father, however, spent most of his time talking loudly to the purple box while he lay on the sofa – Maggie DEFINTELY knew this wasn't a good thing.

Things in the Simpsons' household had changed, both for the better and worse. Maggie wasn't sure when it would end, but she thought she could get used to this new lifestyle.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Santa's Little Helper walked with a heavy step.

His shadow cast onto the dark asphalt in stunningly sinister and yet – somehow – heartbroken relief, the stringy brown greyhound's thin tail whapped the ground softly as his measured paces brought him from one end of Springfield to the next. SLH's head snapped up slightly as a jovial group of barking sheepdogs ran past, chasing a young Chihuahua that had escaped from the local pet store.

Ever since the purple box had stopped working– which the dog had heard, several times, was called "TV" – Homer had been in an increasingly worse mood, shooing him out of the house several times a day. More than once, SLH had been accompanied by Snowball II; a few days ago, after helping young Maggie make her way to the basement window, the two pets had fled the normally calm-looking pink, purple-roofed house.

Snowball had gone her own way since then, though the two pets met up with each other every two days or so. Each day, Snowball had looked thinner and thinner – as, SLH was sure, he himself did. Occasionally, they would share a meal together – usually the remaining scrap pickings of chicken left over from garbage cans (the rest would have been ravaged by raccoons earlier in the day). Sometimes their meal consisted merely of trotting over to the docks where Horatius McCallister, local Sea Captain, would be fishing. Sea Captain would usually feed them a few fish or, if they were too late, the duo would feast on extra shrimp and worms not used as bait during the day.

SLH knew perfectly well that it wasn't the best way of life around, but the greyhound also knew it would be much more dangerous for the two of them to venture back home as long as TV was banned from Springfield. These memories flashing in his mind as the weary dog traversed to one of the darker alleyways to meet Snowball once more. He hoped to find her there – on a dark night like this, he was in sure need of a friend. That thought in mind, he ran eagerly around the pack of joyous canines – who seemed to have caught up with him, somehow – and his pace quickened easily, smoothly.

Lo and behold! When SLH finally arrived at the alleyway and skidded to a halt, he found Snowball II already there. She was curled up on the steps of a dark, dingy-looking building, but jumped to her feet as the stringy brown greyhound came near. This single movement revealed a large shank of bright red veal – raw, juicy, tasty – that had been previously hidden from under her black-furred legs.

The two pets ran eagerly toward each other, rubbing against each other's flanks and stomachs as they reacquainted that night. SLH whimpered happily and followed the frisky, feisty Snowball as she leaped down an the alleyway to share the meat together. There they curled into furry balls of cinnamon-brown and slightly faded black as they shared the slice of veal.

SLH drifted into a realm of blurred happiness as he and Snowball came nearer, ever nearer upon chewing the meat – just until their mouths were touching. At this point, Snowball dropped promptly to her knees and curled up, a gray-black furball on the plain, pockmarked asphalt. With a satisfied sigh-like sound resonating from deep in his throat, SLH curled up beside her.

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**Thecrazyfanficcer: Ach! Pointless SLH and Snowball fluff somewhat reminiscent of **_**The Lady and the Tramp**_**? What am I, insane? Well, either way, and I can assure you -- it has absolutely no effect on this fanfic. Ahem -- now allow me to think of the ever-great and cool Rockman.exe in peace.**

**(finds arm of random pitchfork-armed Simpsons characters staring at it)**

**Thecrazyfanficcer: OK... Time to run for my life! See y'all!**

**And as Fanficcer ran into the distance, so pounded the feet of a hundred infuriated Simpsons characters created by the ever-great and cool Matt Groening. **

* * *


	6. Official Acts of Liberty

"_Bart, could you stop doing that?"_

_The spike-headed ruffian, who had been bouncing a thick blue foam ball on the wall in his room, turned stoically to his mother. Marge, who had been watching her son with a scolding look on her face, made a kind of angry humming noise. "No." _

Bart held the memory in high standards for several reasons. The primary being that, he believed, he had been giving his mother a lesson by downright defying her; the second was that he considered it his beginning of bringing TV back to Springfield. With each thwack of the ball on the wall of his room, his determination had grown stronger…stronger…stronger…

Now Bart was about to begin his first 'official' act on the subject. He was relieving the flashback in his mind as he walked, humming, into the Comic Book Guy's The Android's Dungeon & Baseball Card Shop. This act – oddly enough – consisted of getting an alter ego. He needed to, after all; long had he read with enthusiasm the Radioactive Man comic book series and now wanted to don a pair of tights – er, superclothes. Though Bart knew perfectly well he could do without it (The dude actually _could_ be smart, interestingly enough), he figured it would be a nice touch to begin his plan.

"Welcome, young comic-reader. I trust you need my assistance in your quest to find the perfect comic."

It was Comic Book Guy who had uttered this intelligent-sounding phrase as he stepped from the shadows and into the light. He appeared to be contemplating the young customer, rubbing his unshaved lips thoughtfully, thick fingers running over the stubble. "You want something more," he observed in a flat deadpan when Bart made no move.

"It's for my friend's Halloween costume, but he doesn't want to be Radioactive Man this year," Bart declared as he pointed to the newest comic on the rack. He was referring, of course, to Milhouse, whose outfit usually consisted of a mask and a white T-shirt with a picture of the superhero's face on both sides, predictably enough.

"I can sense that you have an ulterior motive, though I can't reason out it or its origins. Of course, the fact that it is June is a big giveaway." Still contemplating, still scrutinising Bart, CBG picked up the comic book the boy had indicated. "Then you would want to take a few tips from Radioactive Man Issue 637. "It includes a feature entitled 'How to Make a Superhero.' I highly recommend that your friend reads it before running to me."

"Please?"

CBG took one glance into Bart's large, shining, tear-filled eyes before waving his hand in the air disgustedly. "Oh, all right, I shall make a costume for your measly friend."

-------------------------------------------

Homer was thinking.

Which was a pretty weird sight in itself; this time, it was only aided in its weirdness by the fact that Marge was standing angrily over his shoulder.

"If we have to bring TV back," he began, but Marge's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"We can't fight city hall, Homer." She looked at him imploringly, her large eyes glowing softly in the half-light of the Simpsons' dirty kitchen. "It's not like you haven't seen enough TV, after all. Can you not do anything about it just this once? For me, Homey?"

"I –" Homer looked into Marge's large, liquid eyes before pushing her away. "No! I can't do it! I must bring TV back to Springfield!"

And with that, he bounded into the sunrise – in this case, through the kitchen doorway.

Marge sighed and looked down. She had once stopped "city hall" from importing sugar into Springfield, but had been brought down by her own husband. She could fight city hall, but not her Homey.


	7. More of Fanficcer's Craziness

"Hey, you guys wanna help me bring TV back?"

Lenny shrugged easily. He didn't mind either way – like when Homer and started his Springfield Shield police force. Both he and Carl had been in it; neither would have minded with or without it (Lenny didn't like TV as much as some would think). "Sure, Homer."

"Yeah, we're with you. After all, we have to do something." Carl shrugged.

"When do we start?" crested-haired Lenny queried.

"Uh… How about today during lunch break?" Homer paused after he said that to scratch his head. Rats – now he was going to miss out on his regular boxful of donuts for the day Then, feeling comforted, he thought, _Oh well_. At least he and his 'task force' would be bringing TV back to Springfield.

But his thoughts were cut off by the arrival of Mr. Burns; his vampiric shadow cast over the three () workers. "Enjoying a refreshing chat, I see?"

"Er… We were talking about how we could improve the power plant," Lenny lied quickly. Beside him, Carl nodded.

"We were thinking that maybe you could make Homer Employee of the Week for once instead of an inanimate carbon rod." He scrutinized Mr. Burns. "I'd know I'd like it."

"Oh, I'll have to think about that," the hook-nosed old miser returned with a dry laugh. "You see, sometimes even inanimate carbon rods can save lives."

Homer's fists were shaking as he watched the boss' figure disappear, moving away from the trio. "You took away TV." Every word was slow and deliberate, laced with anger, pain, and hatred. "YOU TOOK AWAY TV!"

Homer's entire backside had broken out in furious shakings in spite of the fact that his body was still rooted into the tiled floor. He looked like he was about to lurch forward. With groans in unison, Lenny and Carl grabbed onto his shoulders and steered him away from the powerful patron of the power plant – he who had taken away TV.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Springfield sucks now that there's no TV," the squeaky-voiced teen nodded to his friend Gil, acne spots glowing in the sunlight.

"Yeah, it's harder to get a job than ever." The middle-aged, gray-haired, chubby bachelor Gil acquiesced, placing one hand on the trunk of a lime-green Corolla he was supposed to be selling. The hapless man had taken a pause in his futile and occasionally hectic life as – for the moment – a used-car salesman once again. Now, he and the squeaky-voiced teen were chatting amiably together.

But Gil was a man who was literally tailed by bad luck; within seconds, his arm burst into flames for no apparent reason and the poor bachelor hopped around with anguished yells of torment. "Ah!" he cried in agony as the flame blazed its roaring way up his shoulder. "Why does this always happen to me for?"

"Maybe we should get you a hose," remarked the squeaky-voiced teen, though he made no move to fit action to words. "I heard those flames really can hurt."

Just then, a customer – Otto, in fact, who was looking for a car to 'find some pot,' as he put it – paused in front of the flames smouldering up the gray-haired man amongst them. "Whoa!" he declared loudly upon catching sight of this strange spectacle. "That car is totally awesome!"

Gil, still on fire, hopped around crazily. "You want it for twenty bucks?" he panicked; the flames were growing, and no one had made a move to stop them.

"That's a great deal, man!" In a second, Otto had handed over the bill – which Gil accepted gratefully – and skipped off into the afternoon. Despaired, the used-car salesman looked to the squeaky-voiced teen for guidance – or, in this case, a liquid composed of hydrogen and oxygen.

"Please! Help me!" he cried, and with stunning alacrity the squeaky-voiced teen hopped to it.

"I'm sorry, sir! I didn't see!" was his hasty reply as his orange shirt and jeans went flashing past Gil's burning figure. _How could he not have? _one would wonder, but Gil was too happy to notice.

"Whoo! Old Gil's going to have some food in his belly tonight!" cheered Gil a few minutes later as the squeaky-voiced teen hosed him down.

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() Even though he was shorter… Now how in the world does _that_ work out?

**What am I, insane? (Well, my penname is The**_**crazy**_**fanficcer, so yeah...) I mean, that random dude with the squeaky voice who keeps popping up everywhere hanging around with Gil? A bit of Family Guy-ish-ness – in a Simpsons fanfic? Otto buying a car for twenty smackers?**

**Wow, maybe I am demented... **


	8. And so it REALLY Begins

"We've got to do something about this!"

Now that my little bout of Simpsons scene-switching is over, we return with a much longer scene in the Simpsons household. As it was, Homer was seated on the rust-red couch with Marge, a TV dinner balanced on his lap. Lisa and Bart were perched on the sofa on either side of their parents, also armed with their own portable meals. It was odd – a long time in the past, they had eaten like this in front of the TV. Then, at Marge's insistence, they had begun to eat in their own kitchen. Now, because of the TV ban, it had started once more. Particularly odd, in fact, considering there _was _no TV in Springfield for the time being.

"Homey, you're overreacting," sighed Marge. She stared at the motionless purple box that had formerly – after beer and random Simpson senselessness – had held Homer's attention the most like a small mouse dancing in front of a large cat.

"Yeah, Homer. It's bad to overreact," Bart teased nastily.

"Why you little–" Homer lurched for his son, but the ten-year old only swerved away an evil little cackle.

"Don't have a cow, man."

"The point is," Marge began again over the din of the two tussling males of the Simpsons clan, "We could have fun without TV. We could play board games!"

When Homer's arms removed themselves from Bart's neck, the father, the son, and the daughters turned to Marge with funny looks. The blue-haired woman spread her arms and made a (supposedly) inviting noise, but to no avail.

"OK, that didn't work," she admitted with another sigh as she got down to sit with the others on the couch. "Let's just _not_ get TV back."

"Marge," Homer began, ever so deliberately, as if she were crazy, "Are you crazy? We _have_ to bring TV back!"

"Homer's right," acknowledged Bart bravely, standing up on the sofa in spite of his sneakered feet. "We have to do something. If not, I'll have wasted a hundred bucks on this suit." With that, he held up the sleekly-designed superhero outfit CBG had somehow managed to make for 'Milhouse.'

"Bart! Where did you get a hundred dollars?" exclaimed Marge angrily.

"Uh… Stole it from Dad?" Bart offered feebly.

"Don't listen to him, Mom." Lisa interrupted their conversation with this obedient, good-girl retort. "He hasn't started paying for it yet."

"I should have figured as much," replied Marge, rolling her eyes with a sigh.

"Donning this suit, I shall prepare to save all of Springfield!" declared Bart triumphantly, wriggling around in the sleek red, black and silver outfit. They watched him in horrified fascination for a moment; when his head popped out from the suit, it was through the sleeve instead of the collar.

"Bart, put that away," snapped Marge. Her son extricated himself and pushed the sci-fi getup – which included the blue foam ball he had been bouncing against the wall earlier – under one of the couch's pillows.

"Yes, Mom," he muttered reluctantly as he tried to hide the aforementioned object from view – sadly (yeah right), it was currently visible by eyes as weak as Hans Moleman's. Despite, that, however, nobody noticed.

"Lenny and Carl are with us," mused Homer thoughtfully. "We have to start somewhere..." He trailed off, looking around at his family curiously. "Lisa! Get some pens and paper! I need you to start this for me!"

"What do you want, Dad?" his daughter asked, magically producing a pad and a pen from the depths of Marge's hair. She actually had to stand up and reach into the tall stack of blue locks and pulled the required materials out. "I can start for you, if you'd tell me what you need."

"Uh… I was kind of expecting for you to do everything, Lisa," Homer confessed, his voice sugar-coated.

-------------------------------------------

"Let's see… First we're going to need signs and stakes. We're also going to have be able to control of an army, maybe a lawyer…"

Homer, however, was confused by the former two things. "Signs and stakes… What do we need those things for?"

"We're going to picket."


	9. When Ads are Distributed

Lisa was smart.

Which was, as expected a very handy trait in a person. Within two hours, she had designed some advertisements on her computer. Then, she had ran them through the scanner at the library – though it was nigh-empty in ways of kid's books, the building had an excellent ultra-speed high-definition photocopier. Now, the advertisements – actually for recruiting for their 'Great TV Strike' – were being passed from one hand to the other as Bart, Lisa and Milhouse zoomed around the deserted Springfield on their bikes, passing out the fliers. 'Deserted,' of course, meant abandoned; sure enough, you could actually see the tumbleweeds rolling across the landscape as the three bikers zoomed past.

"What're you doin', Simpson?" Nelson Muntz's voice was taunting as the trio passed the ads to a group of nerds.

"Something that'll earn me fame, fortune, and all-around coolness." Bart spread both hands out, knees tightening around the seat of his bike to hold the stance. He sailed, no-armed, for two seconds before crashing smack-dab into an outlying telephone pole a second later.

"Ha ha!" Nelson pointed one finger in his traditional mocking manner. "You hit a telephone pole!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"We want TV! We want TV!"

So was the cry of the strikers of Springfield, who were assembled around the power plant at three that afternoon. With each shout, the pickets were raised in a synchronized motion, but the strikers – consisting mostly of the able-bodied males of Springfield – appeared to be working for naught. Their cries fell on deaf ears as Mr. Burns did absolutely nothing to acknowledge their presence, let alone stifle the annoying cries of protest.

"Hey, you guys want to help us?" Homer approached the leader of the little group – the squeaky-voiced teen, as it was, whose days in many low-paying, low-condition jobs had apparently taught him something. "We're trying to bring TV back."

"We are, too." The squeaky-voiced teen took but a minute to consider it, then leaned toward said fat man. "But I'll never forget my job as a bag boy, _sir_," he whispered slowly, dangerously, menacingly.

The fat man blinked in reply before reacting.

"Aaaaah!" yelped a scared Homer, bolting for it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"What are they doing, Smithers?"

"They're striking, sir. They want their television back," replied Smithers, as obedient and dutiful to his boss as he'd ever been...on the outside. "If I were you, I would give it to them."

"Never! Confound those blasted fools." To prove his point, Mr. Burns attempted smacking his 'table of war' with both fists. Fortunately, he was so weak that when his aged yellow hands finally made contact with the hard plastic surface, the pieces that stood for the different people of Springfield only rattled. The piece that stood for the power plant, however, wobbled unsteadily before toppling over right onto the painted blue surface of the Atlantic Ocean.

"I'm so weak I can't move any of the pieces aside from my own," – Mr. Burns slowly brought his gaze up to his trusty servant – "and this will prove difficult for warfare planning."

"I'm sure it would be a much better idea to return their TV to them, sir." Smithers adjusted his glasses once more as he talked to the head honcho of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. He was getting nervous now. There had definitely been worse times in recent history when Mr. Burns had attempted to go all megalomaniacal, crazy, insane, demented – well, you get the picture – on the citizens of the not-so-peaceful American town, but Smithers knew better. Mr. Burns had to be stopped before it was too late. "I'm getting bored without TV too, Mr. Burns."

"Never! I will never be bested by the pitiful residents of this puny town!" Mr. Burns smacked the table of war once again, this time sending the piece that signified the old Springfield Monorail tumbling.

And then, seconds later: "Drat! I wanted to bring that old thing back to Springfield!"


	10. Once Upon an Afternoon

Moe was shocked.

Staring at the large group of Springfielders that were filing into his tavern, his mouth nearly fell open. Some small sense in him suddenly awakened and Moe gave his curly gray hair one last pat before smartly pulling a bow tie that had mysteriously appeared on his neck. "It's time to meet the ladies," he muttered to himself, flashing a toothy smile as he faced the counter. "I-"

"Moe, we need…" Homer unknowingly cut the bartender off with this phrase before rapidly turning around to count the mass of strikers. "Uh…"

"Thirty beers, Moe." Lenny appeared at Homer's shoulder, quickly followed by Carl. "We're 'striking to bring TV back and we need to drink to regain our energy.'"

"At least, that's what Homer says," added Carl as the unhappy barkeep returned to the beer spigot behind his cash register to fill the order.

Moe heaved a sigh as he turned away from them and began filling the first mug with creamy, sand-colored beer. "Yeah, all right," he murmured half-heartedly in reply.

Within a matter of minutes, each of the strikers – including our favorite fat man – was armed with a mug of beer and was laughing heartily and cheering raucously. It was like the last match of a sports tournament; the Springfield Atoms against their archrivals, the Shelbyville Sharks. They were actually planning to put the TV on and everything, like a real football match – but this, owing to the ban, didn't actually work. So, instead, they saluted to each other so raucously that beer actually fell from the mugs and slopped all over the table.

With a sigh, Moe produced a thick, worn rag from the depths of his apron and began wiping at the table once more as the Springfielders rejoiced with the founding of their strike. He felt beaten, let down, left out. Moe was certain of one thing, though – he sure wanted TV back.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Lisa – as usual – had been right.

Right meaning that, when Homer actually met up with the large group of strikers he had herded up the next day, they were ready to picket. Homer, upon seeing this spectacle, had complained loudly – to no avail. Now, along with most of the population of Springfield, he was picketing, but in a different way. He wanted to do it solo – the only reason he'd rounded up the group was because Lisa had told him to.

"Take that, Power Plant!" With an angry roaring sound, Homer whacked his striking sign – which was inscribed with the words 'WE NEED TV!' – against the plain gray curving wall of the aforementioned building. "We need TV!"

"You work at the power plant, Dad." Lisa mysteriously came forward from nowhere. "Why are you hitting it for?"

"You're right, Lisa." Homer paused as he carefully stared at his daughter. "It's time to pay," he suddenly replied, pivoting on his heel to face the part of the power plant where every employee knew Mr. Burns lived.

"Rrraaaugh!"

With another senseless roar/yell, Homer threw himself into another wall of the power plant, brandishing his picket like a battleaxe. The gray stuff the power plant was made of dented slightly at the heavy blows dealt by Springfield's resident lard-chewing oaf. He was about to launch into another attack when he was cut off – go figure – by the one and only Charles Montgomery Burns. Translation: at the exact point that the picketing sign hit the dull gray material of the power plant, a window just above the strikers and Mr. Burns appeared from between the curtains. "You will not get your precious television back!" he prophecied; a few seconds later, the window slammed shut.

"What is the deal with that guy?" Carl asked Lenny, who shook his head.

* * *


	11. The Second Evening

The first day of 'official' striking for TV had pretty much ended and the Simpsons were yet again eating at their house. Again, they were eating their TV dinners in front of the now-motionless purple box – though as to why, don't ask me. They were once more seated on the couch; amazingly enough, the pets had returned sometime that afternoon, when Homer and co. had been out picketing in front of the power plant. They were now – after being fed generous doses of cat and dog food by Marge – sleeping peacefully against the wall. SLH's fur had been ravaged by fleas and ticks, as had Snowball II's; now clean, the soft sounds of their snoring floated up to the Simpsons' ears.

"It's time to watch TV." Homer eagerly grabbed the dinner on his lap in one hand and reached for the remote with the other, only to remember the ban. With a grudging sigh, he put it back down and allowed himself to slide down into the rust-red couch. "I forgot. No TV."

"We need to plan some more." Lisa, who had disappeared briefly to her room, now returned, arms burdened by her laptop. "There," she declared as she delicately balanced the heavy apparatus on a side table. "I brought it down here so we could easier access. "Now," she continued, picking up a TV dinner from where it was lying on the armrest of the couch and lying on the floor beside Bart, "We still need more planning. Obviously, striking outside the power plant wasn't exactly the right approach."

"Yeah, but how?" Bart, now having ditched the superhero suit, was viciously bouncing his blue foam ball against the still and silent TV screen with apparently no regard for the rules set down by Marge as he turned to sister. "I can't think of any other ways."

"Well, we could hold a Springfield Council Meeting," was her answer as Lisa scrawled down on a notepad that would soon become ever-present in this time of crisis. "I'm pretty sure Mayor Quimby is riled up about this."

-----------------------------------------------------

Joe Quimby was angrily flipping through the blank channels on his TV. Amazing that he could actually get the darn thing on – pretty much all of Springfield couldn't. _Mayor of any city is an amazing job to withhold, _he thought, _but..._

"It's hard to be run a city when there's no TV." Without even dressing into his blue bathrobe, the angry mayor collapsed into the soft folds of his luxurious bed.

-----------------------------------------------------

"I can't think of anything else, though," Lisa confessed, staring hard at the pad in her hands. "I guess it'll have to do."

"I'll start making appointments." After having said this, Marge got up from where she had been sitting on the couch beside her husband and headed into the kitchen. Homer stared after her receding figure, feeling her sigh of subdued acceptance vibrating in his ears and fordcing a surge of guilt to darken his heart.

"What have I done?" He put his head in his hands so that only his bulbous eyes and somewhat long nose peeped out from between his crossed arms, facing the floor. "I don't want to make Marge do something she doesn't want to."

He looked up in surprise at the sudden touch of a hand on his back.

"I'm sure we'll find some way, Dad." It was Lisa; she comfortingly rubbed Homer's shoulder blade. "All we have to do is try."

"I'm with you, Homer." Bart voiced his opinion, equally standing at the bent Homer's other side. "Anything to bring TV back. Ain't that right, Homer?"

"Yeah…" The father trailed off as he watched his son produce the blue foam ball from his pocket and began whacking it exuberantly against the carpeted floor. "But whatever happened to that superhero suit?"

"Um…"


	12. BEGIN CRAZY DIALOGUE SECTION

Magical golden subtitles appear on the screen.

_A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a genius of a scientist named Professor John Frink had recently discovered a superhero suit abandoned outside the sleek silver spacecraft he had been building._

And here – go figure –the camera zooms downward to see a skinny, scrimpy-looking scientist with wilted brown hair, kneeling under what appears to be a big, silver, glowing UFO.

"And now we insert the metal Frinkahendron" (That's his speak for cube – Man, Wikipedia gives you _way_ too much information.) "under the molecule generator… A tweak there of the wrench, and here we go!" He wiggled the wrench in his hand; a few seconds later, he resurfaced, wiping his forehead with one arm. "Phew! I'm glad that's – glavenglavenglaven!" The last utterance was basically a combination of the same word thrice that he always cried out when he was excited about something scientific or technological – and not without reason, for –

A sleek and streamlined superhero outfit had been tossed past the gate that separated his house form the surrounding areas. After having yelled out his quirky catchphrase thrice in succession, Professor Frink excitedly ran forward, bending down for the suit as he did. "It's amazing!" he cried out in shock as he ran one hand down the silver-blue armour striped with blood-red. "I could use – glaven – a suit like this –glaven – for my science – glaven – experiments!"

He then began digging frantically through the suit, rummaging through each of the pockets and even peering down the collar. With one last, seemingly crazed cry, he shoved the mass of silver steel-like substances into his arms and bolted toward the horizon.

Anyway… I guess if this were an actual episode it would be time for a commercial break… (puts in fake announcer's fake) _The Simpsons will be back after these few messages:_

Pikasqueaks: TCF – what are you doing?

Thecrazyfanficcer: (patiently waiting for 'commercials' to pass) Imitating the TV show…? And plus, we are giving the readers these messages, so technically it's true.

Pikasqueaks: (smacks forehead) Fanficcer, you do know you're insane, right?

Thecrazyfanficcer: Ah, well. The good thing is, the fans'll love my crazy talk.

Pikasqueaks: Brother…

Thecrazyfanficcer (blinks): You know, Pika, I've just realised something. Sometimes you're the stupid one and sometimes it's me. When you think about it, it makes absolutely no sense. (pauses thoughtfully) Kinda makes me wish I were writing another Mega Man fic. I like making Lan an idiot instead of us.

Pikasqueaks: (rolls eyes) For all of you readers out there who don't know what it's talking about, there's this character called Lan Hikari from these video games who's sometimes a gigantic idiot in the games' TV show. Yeah, I know. TCF's off its rocker,

In another time, in another place, a certain Lan Hikari from the series MegaMan Battle Network and a certain Lloyd Irving from the game Tales of Symphonia are standing outside Palmacosta, despite the fact that a certain group of evil Desians are persecuting Chocolat, daughter of Cacao and grandchild of Marble, right behind them.

Lan: You know, I'm actually surprised it didn't try and compare us. I _hate_ Fanficcer when it does that.

Lloyd: Yeah – but it's a good thing. (grins evilly) And you look older.

Lan: Few words for you there, bud – a certain Rockman.exe fanfic this crazy author wants to write under the name of Fiddling with Destiny.

Thecrazyfanficcer: (suddenly appearing out of nowhere with Pikasqueaks on its shoulder) Ooh! Fiddling with Destiny! Must think up more Rockman.exe fanfics even though I have about ten more to write in the Battle Network category!

Lloyd: I'll take it you've got more MMBN fanfics than ToS ones to write – right?

Thecrazyfanficcer: Um…

Pikasqueaks: (hopping down from Fanficcer's shoulder) Sadly, it does. (bows) And now we return to the crazy, insane, demented Simpsons fanfic 'The Great TV Strike!'

Lloyd: I think he's got a point…

Lan: Speaking of which, all the Rockman.exe writers reading this are going to go crazy…

(END CRAZY DIALOGUE SECTION)


	13. Little Shop of Horrors

"I will not aid you in your quest to bring TV back."

Milhouse tried again, despite the fact that the glaring Comic Book Guy's arms were crossed and he was being no more Mr. Nice Guy – which was contradictory, considering he never _was_ a nice guy. "But you like TV too!" the blue-haired boy protested feebly.

"I do, but…uh… Oh, very well," CBG snapped finally to the fourth-grader. "Though I would rather prefer to stay in the sidelines and laugh at your weak attempts to return television back to Springfield." Still glaring, he leaned over the counter so that his hulking figure encompassed everything in shadow, including the poor, teeth-chattering Milhouse.

"It's n-not our fault, s-sir." Milhouse sacredly backed away from the large black shadow cast by the overweight (Yeah, I know… Understatement…) shopkeep. "We just want TV back."

"Without who would know when the next bi-month sci-fi comic con would be coming to town?" came a voice from the doorway of the Android Dungeon's Baseball Card Shop. Both Milhouse and CBG turned at the voice, to see none other than Bart Simpson. One hand perched on the green lavender-lined skateboard resting under his blue-sneakered foot, the ten-year old trickster stared up at the cruel owner of the shop.

"Allow me to take some food out from its secret place in the till of the cash register while I 'consider' your puny problem," CBG replied sarcastically, placing one yellow hand under his stubbled chin. "Hm.." With that, he actually attempted to turn around and not-so-secretly empty the till of the cash register to find…

…that it was empty.

"Noooo!" CBG's long, harsh cry rose into the air as the ponytailed man desperately gripped his hair. "I can live without my shop, I can live without TV - but this – but this is a disaster! Nooo!" His yell echoing and bouncing from against the ceiling, CBG turned to see – Bart.

The prankster had a huge grin on his face in addition to the large bag of Chubby Chicken. His hand clenched and tightened around the red-striped material as he reached one hand in deeper, rummaging around for a hero sandwich that was (literally and figuratively speaking) two feet long. Bart wiggled his fingers with a none-too-distinct "mmm" kind of sound, before stuffing the whole sub into his mouth in one gigantic gulp. Upon catching sight of this gruesome spectacle, CBG clawed at his face and cried out louder.

"Nooooo! I'll do anything, I tell you, anything!"

Bart grinned and cackled evilly. This could get ugly – for CBG, that was, but not him.

For him, things would be fun.

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Bart stared at the shadowed figure with luminous-green eyes who was sitting just out of sight, narrating the Tale from the Comic Book Shop. What in the world was it doing?

TCF only grinned and flashed the peace sign. 'Craziness reigns, buddy boy,' its evil look seemed to say.


	14. TV Ban Headquarters

The TV strike was going – to say the least – very well.

It had been but two weeks since it had started and less than a month since Mr. Burns had begun the ban, and now the greedy old miser was beginning to feel aggravated. Several times a day he would turn around and vent his anger on Smithers in exasperation. The faithful, trusty servant – though comforting to his master -- knew perfectly well the what and the why of the thing the civilians were up to.

At first, worried for the health of both Springfield and Mr. Burns, he had tried to call the authorities (These being Chief Wiggum and his associates Eddie and Lou, of course) and warn them about it. This brave and cunning act, however, had quickly been extinguished owing of course to the TV strike. In other words, the only two things Smithers had to do were take care of Mr. Burns and, when the old man wasn't looking, check up on the strikers and occasionally shout advice and counsel down to them.

Smithers knew that this was a perfectly good idea, as opposed to actually trying to throw Mr. Burns' mind away from the TV ban. If he tried to convince his boss and master otherwise, it was without doubt that Mr. Burns would grow suspicious and watch his manservant/employee even more keenly than he normally would have. Nope, this was definitely Smithers' favourite way to bring TV back to Springfield.

Smithers was indeed thankful of this way of returning TV to Springfield. Not only did it mean that the beloved idiot boxes (so to speak) would once more be running and operational in houses and other buildings all across the town, it also meant that his aged boss/master would maybe relax for a while – the key word was maybe, of course. The good thing was that, if Mr. Burns really did stop his scheming madness for a while, all of Springfield would feel it. The civilians would rest easy without the shadow of the greedy old miser cast over their yellow skins.

_I can't wait until _that_ happens,_ Smithers thought with a grudging smile as he tightened his grip upon the sketchpad in his hand and turned farther away from Mr. Burns, so that he was facing the window. _Once TV's back in Springfield, I plan to give him the old 'you can catch more flies than honey than with vinegar' lecture. _(Contrary to popular belief, Smithers actually _did_ lecture his boss when the evil schemes became demented and out of hand. Weird, huh?)

Smithers had long since discovered that trying to stop Mr. Burns while he was in the midst of the evil-ness; it was an especially bad idea to try when he was planning. If you caught Mr. Burns at exactly the right moment, he would leech onto your WELL-MEANING ideas and twist them around to screw up Springfield even more. _But if I try and lecture him afterwards, when we all have TV back here, it just might work. Maybe it'll even subdue him enough to stop him for good... Actually no, I don't think so..._

Of course, there's always a chance that a thought similar to this one may have popped into your head: Why doesn't Smithers just ship Mr. Burns off to the Retirement Castle? Alas, don't ask me – ask Matt Groening if you ever get the chance. It's a plot hole, though – Springfield would be boring in comparison to Shelbyville with no crime, so he couldn't just stick him there. You'd figure the Simpsons staff could have – after almost twenty years – supplied a reason for the plot hole, but – on the other hand – I guess not. It would make a great idea for a fanfic, though. Imagine Mr. Burns at the Retirement Castle instead of the power plant mansion – wonder what would turn up? What if – NO! PLEASE NO! I ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH FANFICS TO WRITE! NOOOOO!

Anyway…

"Smithers! Are there still striking out there outside the power plant?"

Mr. Burns' spat remark guided Smithers away from his sketchpad, where he had been actually drawing a sketch of the boss himself. (Now how in the world does THAT work out?! Well, at least it's the sort of thing he would be drawing.) Hastily, he juggled the pad from one hand to the other as he attempted to shove it up the pockets of his jacket. "What? Yes, sir… They're still striking."

He knew that without looking, owing to the cries emanating from in front of the dull gray walls; Mr. Burns, however, was not as satisfied. "How many of them are there?" he questioned his employee/servant.

"There's about…" Smithers took a peep out the window, more to concentrate his thoughts than for actual question-answering. (He knew there were about eighty-five strikers, in all, see.) "There's about eighty-five of them in all, see, including some children who are barely six."


	15. A Vampire and his Servant

**Yeah, I know Smithers is out of character. Obviously he _would_ try and stop Burns if that particular hook-nosed miser was up to no good, but still... Though for some reason I get the impression that he really _would_ try drawing a picture of Mr. Burns...**

**Pikasqueaks: Clara, what do you think?**

**Clara: Yeah, I should think so.**

**Pikasqueaks: And you, Magic?**

**Magic: It's fine, kupo!**

**Thecrazyfanficcer: Oh, and peoples, these are the two new muses. Presenting Clara, a yellow Acara from the awesome online game Neopets, and Magic, a Moogle, in the style of those from the Gamecube game Final Fantasy: Crystal Chronicles.**

**New Muses: Hi readers!**

**Magic: Kupo!**

**Thecrazyfanficcer: Now on with the fanfic!**

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"There are that many of them! That's preposterous! Smithers…"

Here Mr. Burns turned ever so slowly to his trusty assistant – ever so slowly that his eyes appeared to bulge in the half-light, his skin seemed to pale and two thin red streaks materialised down his face, running down from his suddenly pointed outlying teeth, just down to his neck. Talk about vampiric.

Smithers had an expression of utter and pure horror on his face; he threw his hands up over his head as the old man's shadow darkened his features. "Spare me, Mr Burns! Spare me!" he cried dramatically -- though not without reason -- as the old man advanced. Now that you mention it, Mr. Burns' hands were starting to clench and curl menacingly; in Smithers' eyes (and our imaginations, for Matt Groening, James L. Brooks and Sam Simon tend to create scenarios like that), it seemed like his nails were lengthening, clawing upon thin air as he who looked like a vampire actually – no, don't make me say it! – became one.

Smithers' hands went down as a door outside slammed suddenly, causing Mr. Burns to let his hands down and (appear to) shrink to a normal size. Now he actually looked normal, though Smithers knew he had been caught red-handed. _What's happening…?_

"Yes, I'm coming." Mr. Burns' snappish words broke out of the blue once more as he prepared to take on the challenge of descending from his lofty perch in a high corner of the mansion and hobbled over to the balcony door. There he proceeded to look down, past the branches flapping and creaking nastily in the wind (Wind? What wind? It's summertime!), down past the freakishly high buildings and breeze-tossed awnings, down around a hundred metres to see the strikers.

Here Mr. Burns paused, gripping tightly onto the railing of the balcony stairway. "On second thought, I don't think I will," he called down to the strikers, his long, thin fingers tightly gripping the banister as he shuffled back into the high room, to Smithers. "Oh, I wish those dastardly oafs would stop their strike already," he declared angrily to his assistant as he heaved himself up the step and back into the room.

"Can do, sir," Smithers assured his boss a little too brightly – good thing Mr. Burns was too busy organizing his file folder (An OOC thing to do, I'll admit…) to notice. He quickly hurried over to the window, ripping out a page of his sketchpad as he did so. Upon this he wrote something in German (this being one of the languages the intellectual Mr. Burns didn't actually know) and pulled on a rope that was close to hand. The rope, suspended next to one of the blood-red curtains, was conveniently hidden from sight to all who came near. Unless you either looked carefully or knew it was there, it was invisible.

The gray middle-aged man dropped his German-writing sheet tugged into a basket attached to the rope before tugging twice on it; it was lowered down over the edge of the balcony, armed with the wicker basket. Within seconds, the message had been received. A few people down below flashed thumbs-up signs to Smithers, who flashed ir back – but very discreetly so Mr. Burns would not suspect – before nodding and turning tail once more.

"Did you take care of them?" When Smithers nodded in reply, Mr. Burns touched the tips of his fingers together (Dumbledore does that too, heh…) in a very characteristic motion. "Excellent. How did you do it?"

"I… I made some vulgar hand signals down to them and mouthed crude words," was Smithers' answer to the ancient one. "They may continue once more, but I think we're safe for a while. They know that when I speak profanely I mean business, you see."

"In that case," declared Mr. Burns, a smile curving his features as he allowed himself to lean back farther in his chair, "I need some aid organizing my files for world domination -- I mean, for the well-meaning of the general populace."


	16. Travelling to Who Knows Where

Yep, the TV strike was really going well, in spite of the fact that German messages had to be passed down on ropes from the power plant because of Mr. Burns. He who had actually started the strike was a dangerous matter – on the outside, he was human, but some said his heart was shrivelled and withered, like a rotting prune. Others said there was still a bit of good left in him, though it still had to emerge from the depths of his soul. Still others said it didn't actually matter, as long as TV was returned to them without anyone getting hurt. And then you had Homer, who would fight for TV back, making sure Mr. Burns would get hurt in the process.

Nonetheless, though, a break in the process had occurred – Mr. Burns was currently relaxing in the lofty heights of the power plant; though as to exactly what he was doing, nobody save Smithers knew. (The answer to the enigma: Mr. Burns was merely relaxing.) The good thing about this arrangement was that, even though TV had yet to make its presence known once more in Springfield, Mr. Burns would not hear them no matter how hard they picketed and struck against the dull, sloping gray wall of the power plant. Translation: it was party time for the strikers, who had put their anger away temporary in light of this situation. After all, what was the point of striking against Charles Montgomery Burns if he couldn't even hear them?

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"How are we gonna party if there's no TV?" Bart's nose was pressed against the glass window of the Simpsons' pink family car (according to a weirdly-named, previously-mentioned online encyclopedia, it's a sedan) as the not-so-scenic scenery rushed past. "Mom said we're going to Legoland."

"Legoland?" Homer paused, his hand just halfway reaching into a box of doughnuts conveniently located under the steering wheel as he drove with one hand. "Legoland?! Marge told me we were going to Party Palace!"

"Homer, there is no Party Palace," Marge interrupted her husband sadly, patting him on the shoulder as they drove past Springfield. "I just told you that to get your mind off of the TV strike."

"The last time we went to Legoland, Lisa got sick," was Homer's grunting, grumbled reply as he swerved the car wildly to avoid a fork in the road. "That's what the doctor told me."

"I went insane because of the Lego water," Lisa added angrily, crossing her arms. "I suggest we go to the Malibu Stacy Luxury Hotel in Shelbyville." Her expression cleared as she brightly balanced a brochure on her knee.

"It says '_Motel'_," Bart intervened, moving Lisa's thumb so that the letter revealed itself to be an M rather than an H.

"Besides, I'm not going to Shelbyville. They have their TV right now. It'd be like abandoning our own town." Homer's voice rang in loudly from the front seat.

Maggie just sucked on her pacifier.

Lisa tried again. "In that case, can we go somewhere with ponies instead?" she tried hopefully, but a foul glare from Bart tossed in her direction caused her to slide down in the seat, like a wilting flower. "I guess we'll just have to go to Legoland, then," she muttered under her breath.

"Well… We could go back home if you want," Marge remarked to them with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders. "You're right; Legoland isn't exactly the best place to visit at a time like this."


	17. Interesting Discovery

"Not a chance," came Bart's stoic rely as the fourth-grader crossed his arms angrily. "We have to go somewhere where we have access to TV."

"But where, though?" was Homer's question as he crazily swivelled the car once more to avoid a bump in the road. "I--"

Homer suddenly got this very ugly look on his face. You know, the works: bulbous, bulging eyes, lips pulled back to show row upon row of rounded crunchers, demented, insane gleam in eyes as the pink sedan coasted through the air. It was not an SUV; therefore, this meant that they had suddenly fallen to a nigh-inevitable doom from… from the cliff?

Yeah, that must've been it, anyway. For Bart, it ended in slow motion as he risked one last glance behind him; sure enough, the grass-lined pathway stopped abruptly – beside which a sign read 'Dead End.'

"Noooooo!" the Simpsons cried, flinging their hands up in the air as the car eased itself through the skies, sloping gently all the while, before suddenly taking a nosedive and began zooming toward the ground at an ultra-high speed. "Waaaah!" they cried as the car bumped down on a high rise. "Noooooooo!" they cried for a longer and more elongated period of time as figures appeared from the shadows around them and began assailing the car.

"Please! Don't hurt us!" Their plaintive pleas for freedom echoed all around – well, wherever they were – as their attackers posed themselves around the car and began whacking at the windows with clubs that had been clenched tightly in their yellow fists.

"We've done nothing wrong!" Homer shouted as the clubs – which were more like inch-thick carved oak staffs, really – poked and prodded at the glass with unnerving velocity. Talk about contradictory. The beer-drinking lard-chewing oaf had done plenty of bad things in his life, even if not necessarily to these people.

"We're not attackin' yous city folk." One of the figures approached the car, signalling to his associates. Instantly, the wooden club-like sticks stopped their relentless battering of the car; with another wave of the hand, the Simpsons were helped out of their upturned vehicle. The man then stood, hands planted on hips as he scrutinised the family through slit eyes.

"Where are we?" asked Homer as he was aided out of the car by two of the man's clan. (Where do I get these words? Final Fantasy: Tactics Advance?) "And who are you?"

The man appeared to live around the outskirts of Springfield, which was the exact place where Homer and co. had fallen from the cliff. Judging by his thick mess of mahogany-red hair, sparsely-strewn freckles, and the tip of hay-like weed dangling from his mouth, it was a countryside that lay beyond Springfield. He was of solid make, well-built and sturdy-looking. "I go by th'name o' Avery Macintosh," he introduced, sticking out one hand as the Simpsons drew near. "Me an' my family lives hereabouts." Again he waved his hand, indicating the countryside around them. "C'mon, city folk. We'll lead you fellers to our homes."

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**A/N: OK, I know that was random. Only problem was, I had to make this fic twenty thousand words, so there ya have it. Avery and his friend weren't even scheduled to appear -- he and his family are my first and only Simpsons OCs. Weird, huh? X)**


	18. In the Countryside

"Them's my family." Avery gestured to the large crowd of thirty-plus people gathered around the Simpsons. "Our grandpappies were born here and've stayed here for over sixty years."

"But why are there so many of you guys?" Homer asked stupidly – and, yes, rudely, though both the former and the latter were unintentional. (Translation: He sounded stupid and rude when he said it, but didn't do it on purpose.)

"Other folk live in these parts," Avery began as he watched Bart and Lisa associate with the locals through as corner of his eye. Which was quite a hasty manoeuvre, considering that they had darted off as soon as Homer had spoken. "At that point, our ancest'rs were young an' they bred with the people who already lived 'ere." The stick of hay in his mouth bobbed momentarily as he chewed the stalk, probing his mind for the rest of the answer. "Now, we're a rovin' communi'y of 'bot sixty or so."

"That's nothing," Homer remarked insultingly with a flick of one thick yellow wrist. "In our town, Springfield, we're about a hundred people."

"Yeah, and even more in Shelbyville," Bart dared to declare to drive his father up the wall as he and Lisa appeared behind the fat man. "So what's the name of this knucker-"

"My husband and our son have social problems," Marge cut in as she painfully squeezed both Homer's and Bart's shoulders in unison. "What Bart – Bartholomew wanted to say is what is the name of your town, Mr. Macintosh?"

Avery, however, seemed unbothered. "We call this place Stream Town."

"Stream Town? Straw Town would be more like it," Bart muttered under his breath as he looked from one brown-shingled house to red-tiled ranch. He made a face. "I-"

Within a second, Bartholomew J. Simpson had been on the receiving end of a slap from his mother and was angrily rubbing his now-red neck. When he looked up to Marge, she gave him a look that just told him to be good and waggled a finger in his direction. Bart groaned softly to himself, one hand on his aching neck as he kicked splatting mud in the direction of Avery's cuffed, mud-spotted, well-worn denim jeans. (Tales of Symphonia fans: Marge slapping Bart on the neck is an OOC thing for her to do, but does it remind you of anyone?)

"Come on; y'all need to meet my fam'ly." Avery began shuffling quickly toward one of the houses that lay in wait, like a gigantic brown and yellow lion, on the horizon. "Y'all need some food to fill your bellies, I think."

"You just said these people are your family." Confusedly rubbing her spike-haired head, Lisa looked Avery up in the eye. "If they're your family, how come we haven't been introduced yet?"

In reply, Avery tossed her a sneaky smile. "Like I said, them's my family – but there's more at our house. They'll met us thereabouts."

Later, after having been introduced to the Simpsons, Avery was showing them his own rather large family.

"This is my lovely wife Nettie. These're our twins, Dick and Bert. These're our daughters Bree, Irma, and Ellie. Ev'ryone else y'see gathered round are aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, step-aunts, or great-uncles. Like Great-Uncle Nick, Cousin Nat, Aunt Myria, Great-Aunt Serine and Cousin Ron."

"Welcome t'our humble abode," added Nettie, a pleasant-looking, chubby, orange-haired woman balancing tiny toddler Bree on her formidable lap. "Stream Town is small, but that's a good thin' 'cause evr'yone knows evry'one else."

"Which helps," Nat tossed in unnecessarily. He was a medium-sized man of about thirty years, with a soft layer of gray already coating his hair. "'Else things'd get confusin' round here."

"I have to agree with you there," Marge agreed with a respectful nod. "We have over a hundred people in our Springfield, so it's not unusual for us to not know everyone there is."

"You guys are a big clan, though," Homer interjected incredulously, his eyes wide as he counted the Macintoshes off one at a time. "There's more than ten of you!"

Avery spared a glance behind him before daring to laugh at Homer's miscalculation – er, miscounting. "Like I told you city folks before, these fellers are only some of us. Our grandpappies and grandmammies've died since then."

"Still, you have a lot of people for one family," Lisa pointed out brightly to the older man. (Actually, he was only about five or six years older than her father, like Moe.) "If you lived in Springfield like we do, everyone would be amazed because of your family."

At this, Avery chuckled, removing the straw hat he'd put on shortly after the arrival to Stream Town to brush away his mahogany-red locks. "Heh, that's a good 'un, Lisa." (She beamed inwardly at the fact that no one had called her 'girl' or 'girlie' for once. Usually Mr. Burns was the only one who got her name right.) "But like I said, mostly we had kids with the people who already live heareabouts. Stream Town is smaller than Springfield – if we lived with y'all, we wouldn't all be Macintoshes."

Lisa paused, thinking, before answering, "Thank you for having brought us into your humble home," she said brightly.

"A kind thin' for you to say." With another chuckle, Avery patted her on the head before turning to his family.

"We'll cook y'all a nice, warm meal," he informed them, though his back was turned to the yellowskins. "Ain't that right, family?"


	19. New Acquaintances

"Yeah!" A resounding cheer passed through the crowd of Macintoshes as a few scores of yellow fists were lifted into the air. (A score is actually twenty, in case you're wondering. It's the sort of things Mr. Burns – or Brian Jacques – would say. Great job on those Redwall books, BJ!)

"Now give us some time," the freckled, white-haired Myria assured the Simpsons with a wink as she passed one hand through her long pony-tailed hair. "We know just 'ow t'make that perfect meal!"

"I think I could get used to this," Homer whispered to Marge as they followed the Macintoshes into the larger dining hall.

"So could I, Homer. So could I," Bart threw in randomly as he took a peek into the dining hall. "_Ai karumba_!" These two Spanish words that represented shock and amazement (in this case, since I don't know what they actually mean) wavered on the air slightly before the ten-year old dared to explore the room more deeply.

"Bart! Come back here!" Marge pulled back the ten year-old, who wriggled furiously in her surprisingly strong grip. The blue-haired made that angry sound from deep in her throat before returning Bart painfully onto the ground of the Macintoshes' house. He stared at her with bulbous white eyes, rubbing the soft spot on his behind where he had fallen from his mother's treacherous grip. Translation: He glared at her while rubbing his butt.

"Studies show that rural life in the countryside isn't much different than that of the suburbs," Lisa decreed as she followed the remaining Simpson (Homer) into the dining room. "I'm not saying I don't agree with that – your lifestyle's like ours, but it's so much different."

"Everyone has a different lifestyle than their neighbour," Avery answered her as he stationed himself alongside Nettie. "Even if they live right next t'each other an' their houses look exactly the same, their souls could be somethin' quite different."

"I like Mr. Macintosh," Lisa whispered to Homer and Marge as the five of them – Maggie included – slid into the many-seated dining table. "He knows how to say the things that will one day cause hunger to disappear from the world."

"You think too hard, Lisa." Homer patted the youngster on the head, unintentionally insulting his daughter. "You're eight years old. You have to act your age."

Seeing the suddenly very grumpy expression on her daughter's face, Marge placed one hand upon Homer's thick shoulder. "Leave her alone, Homer. If Lisa doesn't want to be bothered, she doesn't want to be bothered."

Bart, on his part, still had one hand on his posterior as he seated himself at the long table. He whistled again upon seeing the vast filled-in room. "This a big house," he observed unnecessarily. "The kind that looks a lot smaller than it actually is."

Nettie rolled her eyes as she peeled potatoes in unison with her husband. Was the child dim or somethin' of the like? She had always that particular fact obvious, but you could never be sure with these city folk...


	20. Strange Happenings

Either way you looked at it, Bart wasn't the best kid around (but he _could_ be nice and human when he wanted to). Either way you looked at it, the Macintoshes should not have been pleased to serve the little ruffian and his family. Either way you looked at it, you could apparently change fate – or else it was actually destined to turn out the way I shall now describe – because even Great-Uncle Nick – who usually had a short patience for troublemakers – tolerated Bart. Now that you mentioned it, nigh-everyone did. Most of them did more than that; they admired the young fellow and joked about his mischiefmaking. Bart, ever the attention-getter, stood up proudly amongst the country folk.

"Thank you, thank you very much. Bart Simpson is now escaping to..." – here he trailed off, unable to think of an answer – "continue eating this almost unearthly meal!" That said, he thrust his fork hand into the air; this simple act was followed by a resolute cheer from the listening Macintoshes.

"We're glad to've helped you city folk." The aforementioned eight year-old Bert grinned at the Simpsons, his glowing white teeth dazzling them all in combination with his small-spot freckles, flame-red hair and bright cerulean eyes.

"'S'not ev'ry day someb'dy actually comes from Springfiel' and roosts with us!" added Dick happily. He looked almost exactly like his twin brother Bert, with the sole difference of darker hair. Oh, and another thing: he looked slightly less angelic.

"Pop by any time y'feel like it," added the older Myria with a small smile. "We'll always b'somewhere hereabouts."

"No prob, country people." Homer occupied the space previously used by his son. "When we need you guys, we'll give you a call." He paused suddenly; his hands drooped slightly from where they had been gesticulating. "On second thought, we need help now."

"Help?" inquired an older woman with blue-gray hair named Carolina. "What in thunder would you folks need help for?"

Homer did a shocking thing as he answered. Blushing slightly, he replied: "Well... We need to bring TV back to Springfield."

Avery gritted his teeth. "All right," he muttered, almost under his breath. "Bring it on, city folk."

Meanwhile, back in Springfield, Lenny was discussing where in the world Homer had gotten to with his pals at Moe's.

"Where in the world has Homer gotten to?" he asked as he took a chug of beer.

"I don't know," was Carl's answer; the African-American man was concentrating thoughtfully on the beer mug before him. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen him or his family around for a while."

"For about a day. I would've expected to have seen him here by now," a sober Barney threw in from his end of the tavern before puzzling a moment. "Maybe he stopped drinking beer again?"

"Nah," Moe answered as he rubbed a clear beer mug with his habitual dishcloth. "We would've seen him around town. There's only one explanation for this."

"What's that, Moe?" inquired Lenny interestedly.

"He's somewhere else," was the barkeep's simple reply. "Probably with his family."

Lenny, Carl and Barney watched in amazement as he then proceeded to turn on his heel, away from them, muttering something to himself. "Marge... The most beautiful of all women."

"I didn't know Moe likes Marge," Lenny observed to the other two.

"Well, I did," said Carl, making a face. "It's actually kind of weird."

"Yeah. It was too obvious," commented Barney.

"Funny... How could I have not noticed before?" Lenny was annoyed at himself and slightly confused. "It's really that obvious?" Here he looked up confusedly at the other two.

"If you watch a TV show called 'The Simpsons,' yeah," Carl noted faithfully. Then something odd happened; a look of incomprehension came onto his face. "What did I just say?"

"Something about a TV show called 'The Simpsons' -- whatever that is."


	21. Weirdness USA

Somewhere outside the bar, a very strange thing was happening. A shaded figure with a Pikachu perched upon its shoulder turned to what appeared to be a small, shadowy dog sitting next to them on the sidewalk. The dog resembled Rush from Mega Man: NT Warrior, different only because of his darker pelt and closed eyes. But enough of that; I mentioned him already. (yawns)

"What was that all about?" inquired the shaded figure, one hand uplifted. (That's me, by the way: Fanficcer or TCF.)

"They can't know about their own show," replied the Dark Rush, rolling his eyes. "I had to do something."

"Here we go ripping off Artemis Fowl with the mind wipes again." Fanficcer rolled its own eyes as it stared down the Dark Rush. It thought for a moment. "Maybe I'd've been better off just getting rid of that particular scene."

"It's too late now," Pikasqueaks, the pocket monster seated on TCF's shoulder, shrugged. "Wouldn't to want a great piece of writing, would you?"

"I agree with the thunder mouse." The Dark Rush slapped one paw hard against the sidewalk. "I say you take action! I say you do something great! I say you do what we're telling you to!"

Fanficcer stared hard and long at the not-so-loyal fatedog. "You have _got_ to stop talking like a commercial broadcaster," it noted, annoyed.

In another area of Springfield, Comic Book Guy, too, was puzzling.

"That's odd," he muttered to himself as he pursued the 'Net on a laptop, comfortably installed near the back of the Android Dungeon and Baseball Card Shop. "I haven't seen that boy Simpson and/or his family around Springfield for almost a day now." He paused. "I also don't see why I should care about matters as trivial as theirs."

He resumed to his tapping of the small black keys; within seconds, he had discovered an interesting website (content not specified) and was preparing to track it down to the URL before he was strangely stopped by a sudden, mysterious thought. _I wonder where they have gotten to now?_ CBG shook his head. He had to stop thinking like that.

He had women to – he had a shop to run, after all.

It was the sort of thing you noticed. _No, it's the sort of thing you_ more_ than –_

_glaven! – notice,_ observed Professor Frink with a singsong thought upon glancing around the deserted Springfield. _Everyone goes away when the Simpsons are – glaven! – gone. _As if to prove his point, tumbleweed rolled past the cracked, faded cement.

Professor Frink reached for a pen hidden within the depths of his white lab coat, at the same time fishing around another pocket for his trusty notepad. He then proceeded to scrawl down some things – little bits of info that would help him with his research of human psychology.

"It appears to me that when the Simpsons family goes, the life is sucked out of Springfield," Professor Frink muttered to himself as he scribbled upon the acid-free notebook sheets. "This is a – glaven – unusual development. I shall conduct a survey on all of Springfield. Glaven!" He paused, looking longingly at the superhero suit. The aforementioned item had been purged of its usefulness and was currently stashed away in a closet, never to be used again. Yet oddly enough, Professor Frink had discovered a use for the blue foam ball and this, on the other hand, was bouncing absently in his right hand as he finished jotting down his co-ordinates. The professor keenly observed the dull, listless residents of Springfield, noticing their desire to do something and their counteracting laziness to not do it. "Glaven…" he murmured softly to himself as he recorded more info.

Within minutes, Professor Frink had created a survey on his computer, photocopied it on his scanner several times ('several' meaning, of course, about ninety-nine times) and had handed it to a few random passerby. Out of the seven, only two people paused to fill it out.

"I shall not bend down to your level to discover why the Springfielders are so restless," was CBG's answer. "When they're restless, they appreciate my shop more."

"Yeah, the same thing goes for me," the squeaky-voiced teen threw in. "I'm getting more and more money."

"Disco Stu wants to have some fun. If filling out surveys is the only way to go, then Disco Stu will do it," answered the namesake of these sentences as he relieved Professor Frink of one of the plain white sheets.

"If it will-a help a-Luigi with his customers, then-a he will do it, eh?" was Luigi Risotto's answer as he filled out a survey, thereby helping the stranded professor.

"I need to keep Springfield like this, arr," was Sea Captain's declining contribution. "When it's empty, I have more room to roam the seas, arr."

"No, thank you. I have things to do with my daddy," said Ralph brightly when Professor Frink offered the second-grader one of the surveys. "My dad said that if I came home on time, we could play dress-up." That said, he held up a little-girl's outfit, complete with frilly pink dress and curly blond wig, before going on his way.

"The human brain is an estranged – glaven – device," the professor muttered to himself, stroking his chin as he stuck out a survey-filled hand to the next customer. "Do you want a survey, _señor_?"

"_¡No entiendo inglés!_" was Bumblebee Man's answer upon seeing the proffered personal test. (Which technically translated to 'I don't understand English!', though no subtitles appeared on the bottom of the screen.) "_¡No deseo un examen!_" ('I don't want a survey!')

"Odd." Professor Frink wrinkled his nose as the bee-clad Hispanic man disappeared into the horizon. "Despite my delicate grasp on the Spanish language, it appears to me that he understands English perfectly."


	22. Science, Peasants, and Still No TV

Nonetheless an unbattered Professor Frink went around town with the printed surveys, his spirits dampened as more and more Springfieldians turned them down. Either way you looked at it, he had an unbreakable will of steel – his spirits were indeed dampened but his determination was relentless. By the time he'd scoured the whole town, he had exactly fifteen and a half filled surveys. The aforementioned half being done by the Rich Texan, to whose ear had come word of bargain prices for revolver fuel. He had then proceeded to run off into the sunlight, guns smoking and shouting, "Money! Bargains! Deals! Cheap gunpowder! Whoopee!'" Suffice to say, his pistols had been emptied of the fuel in light of the fact that he had been shootin' 'em off at warp cowboy speed.

Anyway, after ploughing through Springfield armed with these quizzes, Professor Frink read each and every one of the words scribbled onto the sheets, including the names of the sixteen people who had answered his plea. He jotted down notes on what he observed, accomplishing this in around five minutes. Then, he riffled through the pages of his notebook, rummaging through the heaps of information on the residents of Springfield. In the end, this is what he found: when the Simpsons were gone, the normally thriving, bustling American town of one hundred-plus people became as dull and listless as a cat in the sun.

_When I think about,_ thought the professor as he pored over the bright, acid-free white paper, _I'm in the exact same place I – glaven! – started from. _The thought made him angry; he had spent a whole morning discovering things he had already deduced based on observations of the past. Still, you had to learn from your mistakes. Not to mention, this whole experiment _had_ provided him with an interesting, thought-provoking scientific activity for the day.

Professor Frink bit one end of his pencil as he carefully arranged his stuff into their appropriate boxes later that evening. _It's Springfield, after all, _he thought with a grudging smile. _Inhabited by some of the laziest – glaven! – people in the United States. Not really much of a – glaven – scientific breakthrough, but who knows what the future holds… Glaven…_

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And here we go with the Simpsons-esque scene switching - which makes sense 'cause it's a Simpsons fanfic! Anyway, I'll do this in a movie-type format – it'll be easier for you guys _and_ me. ;)

(Scene opens to reveal a large white number that appears onscreen: 2021. Underneath the year, we catch a glimpse of a strange-haired, bespectacled man sitting in a gigantic, human-shaped robot that's at least twenty feet tall.)

**FRINK:** I always – glaven – knew robots would rule the world!

**ROBOT:** (bends down to remove the roof from a fifty-story skyscraper) Yes, your majesty. I can understand that; you are the ultimate creator.

**FRINK:** Yes, I – glaven! – am! Now you there! (pointing to an unfortunate Homer Simpson) Go do my bidding and become evil! Glaven!

**HOMER:** (placing one hand to forehead) Yes, master. (Eyes daze over as he begins to strut forward like a zombie.)

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Meanwhile, back at the lab, Professor Frink's eyes had glazed over at the very thought that robots would rule the world. "With the – glaven – robots and the – glaven – cyborgs – listening to me and the people – glaven – under my command, I could get used to that."

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"No TV in Springfield," Avery mused thoughtfully. "I always knew them Springfielidans had a bad mayor."

"But it's not the mayor's fault, though," Lisa pointed out to the countryman. "I mean, he's done other things, of course, but this time it's Mr. Burns."

"Mr. Burns?" cried Dick. "I've heard of that ol' rapscall'on."

"They say he tortures kids like a mouse trapped in a cereal box," added his twin.

"That's enough, boys." Myria took hold of her great-nephews by each chubby wrist and steered them to the door, followed by Cousin Ron. The short man with black hair, freckles and an earring took the nearby Irma, placed her tenderly in her baby basket and walked away whistling, motioning for the other Macintoshes to follow him. Now the only people who were left in the room with the Simpsons were Avery, Nettie, and ten year-old Ellie and Bree. Technically speaking, they weren't twins; they had been born in different years – within a few weeks, Ellie would turn eleven before her sister did.

"But Dick an' Bert're right," Ellie pointed out now with a shrug. "They say that Mr. Burns ain't no gennelman."

"Leastaways, that's what we heard," added Bree as an afterthought.

"I figure the kids're right," reasoned Nettie, indicating to the Simpsons with a nod. "'Cause pretty much all the folk in Stream Town have heard of that nasty ol' Mr. Burns."

"He's nasty, all right." Homer's brow (presuming he has one, of course) narrowed at the very thought of what the old geezer had done for the residents of Springfield. "Like we said, he took away TV." A pause, then a much-belated smack on the forehead. "D'oh!"

"Actually, what he did was stop the TVs from turning on." Lisa corrected her father before placing one yellow hand upon her lips as she mulled over the situation. "Hm… I don't even know how he did it. It defies all science. He must have some sort of power source at the plant that controls all the TVs in Springfield!" she discovered excitedly, mouth dropping open and eyes glazed at the thought.

"We know this blows, though!" Bart, the ever-manipulative ten year-old, called as he ran over to the doorway to the basement of Avery's house, where the rest of Stream Town was currently staying. "Come on, people! This blows! This blows!" he chanted, successfully rousing them enough so that they looked at each other in confusion. They continued looking at each other as Bart's chant pounded through their minds.

"Stop lissenin' ta him!" Nettie determinedly planted herself in front of the passageway so that the kids had a full view of her, down from the flame-red hair to the worn brown oxfords. "Sure, we'll all band togeth'r to bring TV back to Springfield, but that don't mean you gotta lissen ta him!"

"Aw, please?" Seven year-old Saffron gave her auntie the big blue eyes as she attempted to crawl up the basement stairs. "I always wanted to be in a riot!"

"Mebbe it ain't such a good idea after all," her brother, nine year-old Chad, acknowledged as his gaze slowly dropped to the ground.

"I'll say so!" Nettie stared sternly at her nephew. "Where'd you even learn a word like 'riot?'"

At this point, Bart, who was standing behind her, tugged nervously on the collar of his orange shirt. When the carrot-topped woman began turning ever so slowly to face him, he bolted for it.


	23. Master and Commander

"Smithers… What is that which I see on the horizon?"

Smithers paused carefully before answering his aged boss and master – he didn't want Mr. Burns to find out more than he should. "A mob, sir," he replied respectfully, dipping his head.

"A mob?" Mr. Burns swivelled around in his chair to face his trusty assistant. "Whatever do you mean, Smithers?"

Another careful pause. "What I mean, sir," he began, looking up to face his boss, "is that the Springfieldians want their television and will do anything to get it back."

"Like this?" The aforementioned old geezer (heh heh heh) gestured one hand to the vast – yet, oddly enough, small – town that surrounded them. "Because, if you must know, it's aggravating me."

Smithers could barely hold back his smirks and snarks. Sure enough, a large crowd of Springfielders had stationed themselves everywhere from the entrances and exits of the actual town to wrapped around the power plant itself. They gave the impression that everything was thrown into relief at sunset, like huge multicoloured shadows. He knew perfectly well, of course, that he couldn't join the strikers, but an anonymous tip-off ('anonymous' being Lenny Leonard) had told him that their ranks would be fortified. More help was on the way, and Smithers had the none-too-distinct impression that it had something to do with the Simpsons.

"I can understand, sir," Smithers now respectfully told his boss, despite the fact that a small smile was curling his normally obedient features into something more – something that just told you he would join up with the rest of Springfield to do the right thing. He meant it, too – now matter just how much the obsequious servant Smithers happened to be, even he knew when his boss was going insane. And cutting off all TV from Springfield was a Class A example of that. After all, it hadn't helped when Mr. Burns had actually commanded to be driven over to the KBBL radio station headquarters just to prevent portly middle-aged anchorman Kent Brockman and curly-headed investigative reporter Arnie from doing their thing.

"Excellent." Mr Burns rubbed his pointy-tipped fingers together in a none-too-familiar action, coupled – oddly enough – with a bout of 'Muahahaha' evil laughter that lasted almost three seconds in length. "In that case, I order you to put a stop to it!"

"What?" Shock almost revealed itself on Smithers' face as he stared at the boss of the power plant in astonishment. "You can't! We want– There's an evil, angry mob out there!"

"Then, Smithers" – here Mr. Burns heaved himself up on bony hands to glare at his assistant – "I offer you no choice." A pause for more glowering. "Seize him!"

Smithers struggled wildly – before realising to his surprise that no one had grabbed him. He did wiggle helplessly, though; he felt like he was being X-rayed under the fierce eye-beams of Charles Montgomery Burns.

"Well, then – I demand an explication." Mr. Burns' eyes glowed; Smithers had the impression that they were boring deep into his very soul. "Where have the Simpsons gone?"

"Do I look like I know?" Despite the fact that he was being VERY OOC, Smithers shrugged in reply as his body ceased wiggling. He adjusted his glasses slightly as he stared at Mr. Burns, who had dropped back into his chair and now appeared to be thinking.

"Then I'll have to stop them myself," he muttered under his breath. Smithers, on the other hand, bit his lip and turned back to the window, his mind reeling through a hundred and one possible options. He felt like he was in a maze with a great many passageways but only one way out – though, in reality (OK, fandom – whatever) there were several possible options, the least of which involving a jump from up high and one of the power plant's windows. But none of the available moves inspired Smithers – _the most I could do,_ he figured reasonably, _is stall Mr. Burns until the Simpsons get here. I really, really hope they come back soon._

"But, sir," he now pleaded the boss, trying a new tactic as he threw himself down in front of the (supposedly) all-powerful one. "Oh, you, Mr. Burns the great omnipotent – Oh, what am I saying?" Here, annoyed, he thwacked his forehead, before looking up at proceeding with the plight. "I mean, can't we just give Springfield TV back?"


	24. And CUT! THE END!

**Here it is. The biggie. The final chapter of yours truly's The Great TV Strike. And, while I'm at it, I'd like to give a shout-out to my faithful betae Takaya Akimi, sn0zb0z, ****loonytunecrazy****, Stevie V. Scrivello, Fudge Sludge, and all the others who took the time to read and enjoy this fanfic!**

…

**OK, now I'm ranting. On with the twenty-fourth chapter of The Great TV Strike.**

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Mr. Burns toyed with an imaginary goatee upon surveying his formerly trustworthy assistant. (Eventually, though, when the TV ban would be called off, he would once more come running to power plant tycoon's side.) "No, Smithers," he said finally, his tone morose, fakely saddened as he turned away from our friend and glared at the milling crowds of strikers outside. "This cannot be solved by a mere burst of goodness. It requires badness, badness, and more badness." By the end of this phrase of his speech he was actually banging at the window ledge with one fist. "I'm sorry to tell you, Smithers, but it requires evil."

Smithers gulped as he flocked to the large window upon which he had gazed down from the mansion/power plant so many times in the past. He did not want to do this. He did not want to do this.HE DID NOT WANT TO DO THIS.

But he had no choice – the Simpsons were nowhere in sight. He had to do what he had to do.

Slowly, Smithers turned slowly to his master. "I'm sorry, Mr. Burns." He determinedly walked over to one side of the wall and rested one yellow hand on the dark switch resting in its socket. "It's time…" – here the switch tightened in his grip – "to pull the plug."

"Smithers…" Mr. Burns heaved himself from the desk up by means of bony fingers and lunged for his formerly trusty assistant, but a cry sent them both whipping around.

"We're back, Springfield!"

"Blast it! Where is that confounded racket coming from?" Once more in his element of nasty, greedy, money-collecting old miser, Mr. Burns forgot to attack Smithers and strained his weak eyes as he tried to glimpse out the window.

"It's… It's the Simpsons, sir." Smithers brightened visibly – ooh, now _that_ was the wrong thing to say, as Mr. Burns henceforth looked astonished – upon uttering that short sentence. "Apparently they're back."

Mr. Burns still looked shocked and amazed. Smithers took a few moments to decide his options; suddenly, he shrugged and patted his aged boss on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Burns" – here he sniffed and rubbed one eye rapidly welling with pearly tears – "but I have a secret. I was working with some of the other Springfieldiers to bring TV back."

When the old one's face registered more shock and amazed, Smithers heaved a shuddering sigh and put one hadn't to his temple in a kind of army-type salute. "Goodbye, Mr. Burns."

These last words echoed upon the still air – the still air which suddenly became active as a crowd of Springfieldians from down below began cheering wildly. Pumping their fists into the air with random cries of victory and triumph, their many voices fleshed and melded together to form one single awe-inspiring voice of hope and strength that resonated within every soul of every being in Springfield.

"TV! TV! TV! We wiiiiiiin!"

And then we have Mr. Burns, who was watching this particular spectacle, having flocked to the window to join Smithers, liver-spotted hands gripping the ledge so hard that his knuckles had paled considerably. Smithers, meanwhile, had grabbed the rope formerly used to communicate with the strikers and was now staring fondly, sadly at Mr. Burns.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, climbing onto the rope before swinging down to regroup with the mass of what used to be strikers.

And now that you mention it, how did the strikers know that TV had been returned to Springfield without the idiot boxes in front of them? Good question, there. Me and my stupid plot holes. (smirk)

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"Marge! What's that box-thing we use to watch moving pictures?" Homer called to his wife.

The blue-haired emerged from the kitchen. "Homey, it's TV," she almost snapped at him. "You spent the last two weeks saving it from the evil clutches of Mr. Burns."

"Oh, yeah," he agreed almost boredly as he picked up the remote from the rust-red couch's armrest and began fiddling with it. "What's this thing do again?"

Marge gave a nagging sound from deep within her throat and exited the living room to return to the kitchen. Lisa looked up from where she was lying down on the floor with Bart, watching TV. "I'm proud of what you did, Dad," she told him now, getting to her feet and patting her father's white-shirted shoulder. "Even though I didn't really want TV back that much," she muttered in an undertone – once more playing the role of agonised adolescent. Aside from the fact that she was some five years too young, of course.

"Come on, Lis." With a big grin, Bart patted the carpet space beside him, where Lisa had been sitting a few moments before. "You know you want to."

In reply, Lisa rolled her eyes and once more lay down next to him, still grumping under her breath. "Yeah, right."

A few minutes later and everyone was sitting down watching TV while they waited for Marge to once more herald them into the kitchen for Friday's weekly Pork Chop Night. Homer had opened a can of Duff beer and was currently slurping it, his eyes half-closed as he surveyed the thin strip of moving pictures that indicated _Eye on Springfield_ with Kent Brockman as the anchorman.

"And now that television has been returned to Springfield, everyone is in an exalted mood," Kent was saying; presently the screen flipped and revealed the happy-go-lucky residents of Springfield – uh, which state is it in? Well, anyway, there they were onscreen, elated and joyous as they pumped their hands up in the air and went cartwheeling through the streets which were, for some reason or other, startlingly empty.

"It looks like things are back to normal," Kent finished with a smile just before Arnie began with his bird's-eye-view cast.

"Hey, I wonder where those pets are?" Homer commented randomly as the newsreel came on.

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Meanwhile, somewhere in the alley-ridden behind of Springfield, something very cinematic and Simpsons-esque was going on.

Snowball II turned to Santa's Little Helper as Homer's unnecessary – yet strangely accurate – remark filled her pointed ears. She meowed something to SLH; instantly, subtitles appeared at the bottom of the screen. "Should we go back?"

A bark resulted in more subtitles. "Nah, they mistreated us too much."

More subs on Snowball's part: "Let's get out of here, then."

Within seconds two shadowy figures were streaking away in the sunset.

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"And cut!" TCF got to it shaded feet and began twisting like a hippie for no apparent reason. "One fanfic down, just many more to go!"

"We know you're crazy already, Fanficcer." Pikasqueaks the muse reprimanded his creator; in reply, it only shrugged and thrust two fingers into the air.

"Peace out, everyone!"

The Pikachu rolled his eyes; suddenly, the lights dimmed, the air around them grew black, and a glowing white credit appeared onscreen:

**THE END**


End file.
